


And Behold, Trouble

by lirin



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Houses of Healing, Murder Mystery, Thorongil - Freeform, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-17 13:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: The Houses of Healing were meant to be a place for removing ills, not causing them; and in any case, Thorongil had not wished to be there at all.





	1. Gebeorg

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



> With grateful thanks to my betas: Zdenka, who helped with the initial story treatment, and thinkatory, who read over the full first draft.
> 
> Note on the content: the level of violence, crime, etc. in this story is about what one would expect to find in an Agatha Christie novel.
> 
>  _We have looked...for the time of healing, and behold trouble._ —Jeremiah 14:19 (Douay-Rheims)

After days of fighting with full gear and tight rations, there was nothing better than crossing the Anduin at Osgiliath, and knowing you would sleep in a bed that night. Though it was still before noon, the captain of Osgiliath invited them to stop there for the day, for he had beds enough and news to share. But Thorongil was anxious to report to the Steward, and the rest of his men were eager to be reunited with their families. Gebeorg alone did not share their longing, for Minas Tirith was not his home; but where his captain went, there he would go, and thus he was content.

The road to Minas Tirith was good, and they kept their speed to a fast canter. The sun was still bright and the bells were ringing the ninth hour when they drew their horses up at the gate of the city. Amlod signaled the men to form ranks, while Gebeorg trotted up to the gate alongside Thorongil. He ached all over from the long ride—particularly his wrists, though his mare was not one to tug at the reins. No matter; a flagon of ale should soon set all to rights.

The iron doors of the city rolled back before them. “What news?” cried the gatekeeper. “Were you victorious?”

“Of course he was victorious!” another of the men at the gate put in. “Thorongil can turn the tide of any battle!”

Thorongil dipped his head at the compliment. “We were indeed victorious,” he said. “We routed a troop of orcs that was harrying our outposts in North Ithilien. Not one escaped to bring tidings back to their masters in the Black Land. Half of my troop, as you see, I left behind to fill out the complement of Rangers there.”

“And how is Ithilien?” another asked. “It has not lost all the beauty that it held when our people farmed it, has it?” 

“Indeed it has not,” Thorongil said. “The shadow has touched it, but green plants and great trees still grow there.”

“Tell us about the battle!” still another cried. “Was it as great as when you first came to Gondor, and turned the tide of battle at Osgiliath?”

Gebeorg grinned. He knew such questions were among those that Thorongil preferred to avoid, but he took it upon himself to inform the gatekeepers of his captain’s bravery. “Indeed it was a great victory,” he said, “though not as great as the conquering of Osgiliath. The orcs we fought had no knowledge of our coming, and their position was not fortified. But our victory was far more complete, and we took no losses, and indeed not even any serious injuries.” Only bumps and bruises, for which Gebeorg was very grateful. The nearest miss had been Thorongil, who had been grazed by a spear, but even that injury had not been severe enough to need more than light bandaging.

“That is good news indeed,” the gatekeeper said. “May all your battles be so.”

From behind him, inside the city, came the sound of hooves on cobbles. All turned to look, for horses were rare inside the city.

The rider that approached wore the green cloak and mail of the errand-riders of Ecthelion. Thorongil and Gebeorg walked their horses to the side to give the rider room to pass at speed. But instead, the rider reined up in front of them. “Hail, Thorongil!” he said. “Ecthelion is pleased to hear of your return, and desires for you to report immediately to him and his council. He would hear tidings of your battle, and of Ithilien.”

Thorongil bowed acquiescence, as well as he could on horseback, and turned to his lieutenant. “Amlod, see to the stabling of the horses and the feeding of the men. Those that have homes in the city may go to them. Arrange for lodging for the others. The barracks in the third circle should have room. I will seek you there after I have finished my report. Gebeorg, with me.”

Gebeorg followed, as he always did. Up the cobbled streets of Minas Tirith they clattered single-file: first the Steward’s messenger, then the Captain, then the Captain’s aide. And as they rode, everywhere the townspeople turned to look, and then to cheer Thorongil’s return. Small children, excited by their great horse and shining mail—draped though it was in Rangers’ drab—ran at their tail, but were rapidly outpaced, only to be replaced by more of the same.

The children were finally left behind for good at the sixth circle, and so were the horses. The errand-rider offered to stable Thorongil’s and Gebeorg’s horses together with his own, and they gratefully accepted, for their was no place for horses in the Citadel.

Side by side, they strode forward into the tunnel that led to the seventh circle. Gebeorg hastened his stride to keep pace, for Thorongil was as tall as the Númenóreans of old, and no man could cover ground faster than he when he was in a hurry.

As they emerged from the tunnel, the son of the Steward was crossing the pavement from the Hall of Knowledge to the White Tower. Spying Thorongil and Gebeorg, he stopped and waited for them to catch him up. Denethor was not overfond of Thorongil, but he cared for Gondor, and would be wanting the news Thorongil bore as soon as he may, so that he could learn how it affected the country he would one day rule.

“Welcome back to the city,” he said, continuing toward the Tower once they had joined him. “I trust your return indicates that North Ithilien has been cleared of its latest menace?”

“As well as it may be,” Thorongil said. “Further orcs may issue forth from the Black Land whenever their lord pleases, and we can do little to foreknow their coming. But the land is empty of trespassers for now. And what of Minas Tirith? How goes the Tower of Guard while I have been away?”

Denethor laughed mirthlessly. “Still we look out from our tower and watch the darkness in the East,” he said. “Your absence or presence makes very little difference to that activity.” He fell silent, fingering the horn at his side. He did not speak again until they had gained the Tower and were walking side by side along the passageway. “There have been one new addition to the council while you were away,” he said. “My wife’s brother has come up from Dol Amroth for an extended visit. Prince Adrahil wishes for him to be educated in Minas Tirith. My father has allowed him a seat on the council so that he may learn statecraft by watching as well as by reading.”

“A good opportunity for young Imrahil,” Thorongil said. “Let us hope that he makes the most of it. And I am sure that the Lady Finduilas will be glad of her brother’s company.”

“Yes,” Denethor said curtly. They continued on in silence.

When they entered the council chamber, it was already full of men engaged in desultory conversation; the Steward must have called the meeting as soon as Thorongil’s banner was spied by the highest lookout, for this many of his counselors to have gathered already.

“Istandil, is your uncle well?” someone asked. Hithuion, Gebeorg realized. He must have shaved off his beard in the last week or so; he scarcely recognized the man without it.

“Well enough,” Istandil said, “though he finds it difficult to walk any distance these days. I believe the day is not far off that he will fully hand over his duties to me, and for myself as well as for him, I will welcome it. He overextends himself.”

“At least he has you attending these meetings for him,” Felarúth put in. “There is no longer need for him to drag himself all the way up here.”

“I worry that he would not be able to do so even if he tried,” Istandil said. “Yesterday, it took him ten minutes simply to walk to the back of the hall and fetch a scroll that he had fetched a thousand times before.”

“If you have a scroll that needs to be fetched a thousand times, shouldn’t it be at the front of the hall?” Belen suggested. He stepped closer to the newcomers as he spoke. Trying not to wrinkle his nose, Gebeorg moved farther away. Belen smelled of the tavern that he had no doubt had to be dragged out of for this meeting.

Istandil smiled. “But then where would we keep the scrolls that we have needed tens of thousands of times?”

Ignoring their jests, Denethor pushed past Gebeorg and walked through the middle of the gathered counselors to take his preferred seat on the bench closest to his father’s chair. Old Belegor, Belen’s father, turned to him. “And how is the Lady Finduilas?” he asked.

“Very well,” Denethor said calmly. “I thank you for your concern.”

“And are we to be expecting a special announcement any time soon?” Belen asked, turning his attention from Istandil.

“I could not say,” Denethor said.

“Has your Lady decided yet whether she likes the city?” Felarúth asked. “She does not come out very often.”

“Better that than to come out for the wrong reasons,” Hithuion said. “ _Some_ people I could name have wives who get out entirely too much.”

“What are you implying?” Felarúth snapped defensively. His defensiveness was not entirely unwarranted, for Hithuion’s gaze had indeed been fixed on him as he spoke.

“Simply that you might have a care for your own wife before you go worrying about others’ wives,” Hithuion said. “I hear tell that your good Morwen was out all night at Lady Celebeth’s party. Did you ask her who she was with?”

“I have always trusted my wife,” Felarúth said. “I'm sure she wasn't with anyone. I would have accompanied her, but I have not the strength to stay up all night and still have my wits in the morning. And in any event, how do you know she was there? Is it not because your wife was there as well?”

“Unlike some people, my wife left at an appropriate hour and departed as alone as she came.”

“So she tells you. But then, she could hardly tell you differently, could she not?”

“My lord Belegor!” Istandil broke in loudly. “I did not have opportunity to greet you when you came to the Hall of Knowledge yesterday; did you find all that you sought?”

Thus interrupted, Felarúth and Hithuion did not respond further to one another’s accusations, though Felarúth continued to glare at the man before limping to a seat by one of the far pillars. His limp seemed quite improved from the last time Gebeorg had seen him, two months prior, before Thorongil had been sent to Ithilien. Perhaps he would soon be able to return to the field, and freed from the trappings of politics and stone towers that so obviously discomfited him.

Belegor was answering Istandil, something about troop records from the days of Turgon, but Gebeorg did not listen. He hoped the Steward would arrive soon, so they could make their report and be on their way to a well-earned dinner.

Thalion walked in. Was that the last of the council members? No, Dol Amroth was not here yet, and the Steward’s secretary would most likely be accompanying the Steward. Gebeorg stepped over to the closest pillar so he could lean on it. If they had taken the captain of Osgiliath up on his offer, they could have been halfway through dinner by now—though the beds they would have to look forward to were not much to speak of. If only Osgiliath had been rebuilt into a proper city, and not just a garrisoned outpost. 

“Thorongil!” Thalion said warmly, approaching the group. “I was glad to hear of your return. Welcome back to the city!”

Thorongil glanced up, startled out of whatever train of thought he had been lost to. “I thank you. It is always a beautiful city to which to return.”

“And an equally beautiful city to spend one’s days in after returning, not that you have had much experience with that of late,” Thalion said. “Will you be staying long this time?”

“I do not know,” Thorongil said. He nodded towards the black chair that stood empty at the foot of the dais. “I have not yet reported to the Steward on my current mission nor heard all of the news of the last two months; it is too early to plan my next move.”

“Well, while you are in town, why don’t you make the most of it?” Thalion said. “There is more to the city than archives and training grounds.”

“Lady Celebeth is having another party tonight,” Hithuion said. “You should go. You could meet people, maybe find some companionship…just don’t go home with Felarúth’s wife.”

“Or Hithuion’s,” Belen added.

“You might as well give up,” Denethor said—his first addition to the gossip, and likely his last. “If he has been here almost a decade without attending a single party of any description, he is not likely to be caught at Celebeth’s now.”

“But then how are we to find him somebody to settle down with?” Belen asked. “You see how happy Denethor is with his cold lady from the Sea? If even he can find marital bliss, surely it’s worth a try for Thorongil.”

Gebeorg glanced at Thorongil, wondering if he ought to break in and change the topic. But he feared it might be a hindrance instead of a help. Gondorian politics was beyond him, even after all these years standing quietly at council sessions, and he did not want to damage his captain’s reputation through a poorly chosen word. Thorongil gave no sign, and Gebeorg kept his silence.

Hithuion leaned back in his seat. “You would like being married,” he said. “In between all the worrying about what she is getting up to at Lady Celebeth’s while you are away in Ithilien, there is plenty of happy companionship, and hopefully good cooking and conversation if you have chosen well.”

Felarúth glared darkly at Hithuion. Having served most recently in Ithilien himself, no doubt he took the first half of his comment as the gibe it was intended to be. Before he could reply, however, the metal doors swung open. The half of the company that was seated sprung to their feet, and the Steward swept into the room.

The room fell silent; all taste for gossip had fled with the coming of the Lord of Gondor.

“Thorongil,” Ecthelion said. “It is good to have you back in the city.” He strode quickly across the hall, for though he was old he was still hale, for the blood of Númenor flowed through his veins.

“I am always glad to return here, my lord,” Thorongil said. He waited until Ecthelion was seated in the black stone chair, then stepped forward to kneel before him. “I beg leave to bring you news of Ithilien, and of victories in that land. Though none be especially great, still our borders remain secure, and the enemy’s encroachment into our lands has been reduced.”

Ecthelion bade him rise. The rest of the council took their seats, and Thorongil began his report.

“A fortnight ago, my scouts discovered mustering of orcs in the north of Ithilien, near Nindalf. I feared that such a gathering could foretoken an assault on our lands, and wished to stop them before they could organize fully. We set out from Henneth Annûn with a full complement on the morning of the fourth, marching as lightly and quickly as we could.”

Gebeorg suppressed a grimace. ‘Lightly and quickly’ was a polite way of saying ‘long days, little sleep, and tight rations’. And all of it in the shadow of the Black Land.

“At midday on the sixth, we caught our first sight of enemy forces. At first, we were unsure whether they were merely a scouting force…”

Gebeorg twisted his fingers together, willing himself to look attentive. His hands ached with slowly-healing bruises from the battle, but he ignored the pain. Dinner was next. Perhaps some roast fowl, a flagon of ale, and some richly buttered bread. Toasted slowly over the fire until it was golden brown, he thought. Some of that brown bread from the tavern in the fifth circle—there was no finer bread baked anywhere in the city. And then some wine to finish the meal, or perhaps just some more ale; this was no time to be choosy.

There were quiet footsteps behind him. He took them for one of the Guards until a young man of about twenty slipped quietly onto the other end of the bench. He sat there, watching Thorongil attentively. Thorongil had finished his discussion of the first battle, with the orcs’ advance guard, and was explaining how they had seen another larger force further north.

The young man turned to Gebeorg. “Did I miss very much of the report?” he whispered as quietly as possible.

“No,” Gebeorg whispered back. “We marched north from Henneth Annûn, spied orcs on the third day’s march, defeated them, then spied more orcs. Now you are all caught up, for he is only speaking of the second battle now. Are you Imrahil?”

The young man nodded. “I have only been in the city a week,” he whispered. “I still get lost, though you might not think it possible in a city so constrained.”

“I was the same when I came to Gondor,” Gebeorg returned. “Gebeorg of Rohan I am. I serve Thorongil as his aide, and came here with him nigh on a decade ago. It helps if you try to keep count of which circle you are in. And make sure you visit the tavern on the fifth circle.”

“I have,” Imrahil whispered. “And I shall again, for their fare was very good.” He turned his head back to face Thorongil, who was in the midst of the second battle. The lad had a knack for appearing attentive. If he was wise, he would listen truly and not simply feign interest. Thorongil knew battle tactics well; none better, as far as Gebeorg was concerned. A future prince could learn much from such a man. As for Gebeorg, he could no doubt learn much as well; but he had already learned plenty, and hashed out the battle five times over on the return to Henneth Annûn alone, so he returned to his contemplation of buttered bread with ale.

 

After Thorongil concluded his report, the council had many questions for him, and it was less than an hour before sunset when Thorongil and Gebeorg at last emerged from the White Tower. “And now for dinner!” Gebeorg said cheerfully. Thorongil had looked exhausted, there at the end; he needed a good dinner and rest.

There was no response from Thorongil, and Gebeorg turned to him, worried. “Captain?”

Thorongil’s face was pale and drawn. Stiffly, he staggered towards the closest pillar and leaned against it, holding a hand to his side.

“Captain, are you hurt?” Gebeorg stepped forward and reached for Thorongil’s side. Gently, he pulled away Thorongil’s shirt to reveal the bandages from the day before, now spotted red in places where his wound had bled through.

“It was well enough earlier,” Thorongil said wryly.

“That was before you spent all day on horseback,” Gebeorg said with a sigh. “Change of plans. There is decent enough food to be found in the Houses of Healing; I am taking you there and we’ll skip the tavern.”

He put his arm around Thorongil to take some of his weight, but Thorongil shrugged it off. “I am well enough to walk on my own,” he said. He stepped forward, his stride stiffer than usual but almost convincing to a casual observer. Gebeorg sighed and followed him. Better to get him to the Houses faster than to waste time in arguing, and the captain no doubt had his reasons. There were some on the council whom he did not fully trust, and he might not wish to show weakness in front of them.

 

The Houses of Healing were not far at all from the mouth of the tunnel, and Thorongil and Gebeorg soon reached them. Even in pain as he was, Thorongil could still cover ground quickly.

A healer met them at the doors of the Houses. “You are injured, my lord Thorongil?” he said, wasting no time with greetings.

“He was grazed by a spear in battle in Ithilien, three days past,” Gebeorg said, so that Thorongil need not waste strength on talking. “It did not bleed overmuch, nor was there any sign of trouble with the injury until we rode here today, a full day’s ride at a fast canter. It has since begun to bleed through the bandages, which were clean before the ride.”

The healer frowned. “What overexertion and strain have caused, rest and what healing arts we possess can mend. Follow me.”

As they stepped forward into the main hall of the Houses, Thorongil suffered Gebeorg to put his arm around his shoulders and take the weight. His lips were pulled tight from the pain, and Gebeorg wished he had noticed sooner. Surely there must have been some sign before the council meeting of the pain his captain was in, and if he had seen it, perhaps he could have convinced him to seek the Houses sooner, or at very least to receive a change of bandages.

The main hall was wide and pillared but empty. Only one occupant did it have, a young woman seated at a table at the far end of the hall. The healer who led them turned to her as they passed. “Gonedis, this is another inmate for the House,” he told her. “He needs prompt attention now, but mark his arrival down and I shall tell you his name and all when I return.” The woman drew forth a heavy book and opened it to record the news of their coming.

Leaving her and the main hall behind, they approached one of the wings that extended to the southwest. A porter stood at the end of the wing closest to them, guarding the door, but the door stood open wide and the porter did not hinder them.

The hall they entered was long and narrow, with many doors leading off of it. It was lit only by torches, for no light could reach it from outside, on the other side of its thick stone walls. A boy was sweeping the floor energetically, his broom swinging in wide strokes. He stopped as they passed, and Gebeorg was glad of it, for there had not been room for two to pass abreast without tripping over either child or broom. “Please fetch Maenil and the Warden,” their guide told the boy, and the lad scampered off, broom in hand.

“We have three other guests today in this wing of the Houses of Healing,” the healer said. He took a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the fifth door on the left. “I am glad it is so few, for all who abide in this wing took their injuries in war, and like all healers, I have no love of war. You may lie on that bed.”

Gebeorg helped Thorongil over to the bed, and Thorongil lay down right willingly. His face seemed to relax as he let the bed take his weight, though he was still quite pale.

“Maenil and the Warden will be here directly,” the healer informed them. “I will not remove your bandages until they are here to instruct me, for they have far more years of knowledge than I.” He stepped to a cupboard in the corner of the room and removed a basin and various linens. “I am named Cyllon, and I have served in this House for two years.”

“Can I help?” Gebeorg offered. This was a place for those who were sick and those who could heal them, and right now, he was neither. He stepped to Cyllon’s side. “I have some experience with bandages.”

“I thank you, but I do not believe that will be needed,” Cyllon said. “If you wish to help, speak comforting words to your friend to ease his pain. I am going to fetch water now.” He took the basin and went out, closing the door behind him.

Thorongil cracked an eye open. “I am finding the pain quite bearable,” he said, “so you need not speak comforting words on my account. Indeed, if the wound had not begun to bleed more heavily, I should not have bothered to seek this place at all. I am sure it would heal soon of its own accord. Indeed, I am surprised that it bled this much, for the point of the creature’s spear bypassed me completely.”

“If you have no wish for words of comfort,” Gebeorg said, “I shall speak opposing words: words of discontent and distress. You should not have ridden this far today with an injury such as yours. We should have stopped at Osgiliath. Surely you were aware by that point that your wound was troubling you more than it had been?”

“I truly had not noticed,” Thorongil said. “It ached somewhat, that is all. It did not truly hurt until I was almost finished before the council. And it still hurts no more than that. Do not worry, good Gebeorg. I know somewhat of wounds and the healing of them, and I will not push my body beyond what it can bear unless it be in a far more important cause than simply hastening our return to the fair city of Minas Tirith.”

The door opened, and Cyllon entered with the filled basin, two others on his heels. The first was an old woman, with gray hair tightly restrained. She held a torch, which she placed in a bracket to supplement the light from the window. Stepping to Thorongil’s bedside, she reached for the laces of his shirt. Cyllon stood nearby, ready with the basin.

The other newcomer was Iphannon, the Warden of the Houses of Healing. Gebeorg had met him once, long before, but he had never had occasion to speak to the man. He could not think of anything to say now, either, so he stood uncomfortably on the other side of Thorongil’s bed and watched the healers work. With nimble fingers, the woman loosened Thorongil’s shirt and pulled it gently over his head, then began to remove the bandages. The outer layers of linen lifted away easily, but the inner ones were clotted with blood. She dipped a fresh cloth in Cyllon’s basin, and used it to soften the places where the blood had dried so she could remove it. After the linen bandages was a mass of lint that came off all in a dark red clump. Gebeorg swallowed hard at the sight of that much blood, but none of the healers blinked an eye at it. The Warden traded places with Cyllon, taking his clean basin while Cyllon removed the bandage waste in another basin. Gebeorg straightened his shoulders and forced himself to stare at their work; far be it for a soldier of Thorongil to quail at the sight of blood when civilians did not.

“Stitching will not be needed,” the Warden said after peering at the wound. “Wash it and bandage it back up afresh, and bed rest of a day or two should be all that is needed to allow the wound to heal.”

With this, the Warden departed. Cyllon took the basin back from him, and Maenil washed the wound thoroughly. As the last of the dried blood was cleared away, it became clear that the wound was neither deep nor wide. It was certainly more than the scratch that Thorongil had claimed it was three days ago, but not nearly as great as Gebeorg had feared. With practiced speed, Maenil rebound Thorongil’s side with soft white linen.

“Have you ought else in need of care?” she said when she was finished.

“I am content, but you should look after Gebeorg,” Thorongil said.

Gebeorg shook his head. “I have but bumps and bruises,” he said, “no more.”

“You have been favoring your wrist since we left Ithilien,” Thorongil said. “Perhaps ‘tis only bruised, but you should allow the healers to look at it at very least.”

Maenil held out her hand, and under Thorongil’s steely gaze, Gebeorg consented to place his hand in hers. She turned it this way and that, sometimes watching his face and other times his hand. Her hands were as gentle as they were skilled, but Gebeorg could not suppress a few gasps when his wrist twinged in pain. Perhaps he had strained it more than he realized on the ride from Ithilien, just as Thorongil had his side.

“Fetch a splint,” Maenil told Cyllon, who hurried off at once. “It is but sprained, I think. You should wear the splint for a fortnight, or longer if it still aches.” After only a few seconds, Cyllon darted back in with the splint, and Maenil used one of the spare linen bandages to bind it to Gebeorg’s wrist.

“My lord Thorongil,” she said when she had finished. “It is the Warden’s wish that you should remain here and stay abed until at least tomorroweve, and until the next day if possible. You may stay in this room until then, and your meals will be brought to you. My lord Gebeorg, all outsiders must leave the Houses of Healing at the hour of sunset, but you may remain here until then.” With a courtesy, she left the room and closed the door.

“Now don’t try to get up,” Gebeorg said immediately. He turned to Thorongil, who, as he had entirely expected, was already pushing himself up as if to sit. He glared at his captain as firmly as he could. “I know you have many things you wish to do in the city, but they must wait for a day or two. Today, you must rest.”

Grudgingly, Thorongil lay back on the mattress. “If I am to lay here all through the morrow, you might at least fetch me something to read.”

“In the morning, I will,” Gebeorg assured him. “But for today, the only thing I shall fetch is dinner.”

“Dinner is one thing there is no need to fetch,” Thorongil said. “It will be brought to us.”

“If they have not forgotten us,” Gebeorg said. “But I shall go and make certain, for we arrived near to the dinner hour and they may not have been informed in time of our coming.” He opened the door, then turned back with one last warning: “Now don’t get up while I am gone.”

“I won’t,” Thorongil said, and his smile was free enough of pain that Gebeorg’s worry eased, and he went out.

 

Following his nose led Gebeorg to the kitchens quickly enough, and a maiden there assured him that she would bring dinner directly for the captain—and, when he handed her a quarter tharni, for my lord as well, thank you kindly, sir.

She disappeared into the kitchen with a clatter of pots and dishes. Gebeorg returned to the room and found both Thorongil and the maid true to their words: Thorongil, for he was as recumbent as when Gebeorg had left him, and the maid, for she was scarce a minute behind him with trays piled high. Cheese pasties she had, and others of apple, and bread of good color, though not near as fine as Gebeorg’s favorite from the _Black Boar_. She set the trays on a table near the door and fetched a stand from the cupboard to place over Thorongil, so that he could eat as he lay in the bed. She fetched also pillows, and Gebeorg, seeing her intent, helped Thorongil to sit up a little more, while she placed the pillows behind him.

“Much better,” Thorongil said when they had finished. “I thank you.” The maiden set food before him on the stand, and filled two cups with wine.

“Who else is staying in this wing of the Houses?” Gebeorg asked her, once he had drained his cup and eaten half of a pasty.

“Three there are, my lord,” she said, filling his cup a second time. “Master Ceredir, Master Grauadan, and Master Cômathol.” She set out the last few plates, but seemed in no hurry to leave. “Master Ceredir has no injury, but after his long service in past wars he told the Warden that in no other place in the House will he feel as at home as in this wing, and so the Warden gave him leave. He is always polite and as cheerful as he may be when I bring him his meals, but I fear he may not be long with us; for old age is the one malady that naught can cure. Master Grauadan is one of the Guards of the Citadel, but he was not injured in the line of duty. I hear tell that he tripped and fell down a flight of stairs at a party, if you can believe such a silly thing of one who wears the black and silver. And Master Cômathol has been unconscious for nigh on a month, and we fear he shall never wake again. They say he fought bravely in battle until he was struck from behind.”

“Was that in Ithilien?” Thorongil asked. “I have not heard of him.”

“I do not know, my lord,” she said. “I have no head for battles and maps, but only for the roasting of fowl and the baking of bread.”

“And you do that very well,” Gebeorg said. “This food is delicious.”

“All food may seem delicious to a soldier who has labored long hours without rest,” she said, “but I thank you. I pride myself on my cheese pasties.”

“And your apple pasties as well, I should hope,” Thorongil said. “Is this wing nearly empty, then, with none else than the three you named?”

“It must needs be large for times of war,” she said, “though of course the other wing and the outbuildings can be used also for that purpose in times of need, and in extremity even the main hall can serve as a sickroom. At times some of the healers have rooms in this wing, but at present all who do not have their own homes dwell in the outbuildings. There is only the porter, who has the room closest to the door to the main hall. That door is locked from sunset to sunrise, and it is he who holds the key. If you have any errand during the night, you must convince him of your errand’s import, for there is no other way in or out. The other end of the wing abuts the city wall.” A bell rang somewhere outside, and she jumped. “I have tarried here too long, my lords,” she said. “You must excuse me.”

Gebeorg followed her to the door. “I did not tell you my name; I am Gebeorg,” he said. “I thank you for your good food and your charming conversation.”

“I am named Feniel,” she replied, “and you are very welcome to them both, my lord Gebeorg.” She smiled shyly up at him, and the bell rang again. “Oh!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands to her cheeks. Turning in haste, she scampered down the corridor and out the door where the porter stood. Stepping back into Thorongil’s room, Gebeorg closed the door and returned to their repast.

 

“I thought your report was well received,” Gebeorg said finally, from the depths of his third apple pasty.

“Ecthelion seemed happy enough of the news,” Thorongil agreed. “As for the others, they listened well, but some did not ask as many questions as I expected. Denethor and Istandil, it is true, asked enough questions to make up for the lack, not to mention Ecthelion himself. But I fear me some of those who counsel the Steward have little thought for anything more than a day’s ride from this city, much less Ithilien and those other lands which once we held but no more.”

“Istandil will do well as a loremaster,” Gebeorg said. “His uncle never used to ask so many questions when he was around. Istandil’s concern for accuracy is fitting for one in his role.” He sipped at his wine. “The son of the Steward and his young kinsman, at least, seemed to have given thought to the defense of Ithilien. It is well for us that they should, as Gondor’s future rulers. And of course Belegor and Felarúth knew the area of which you spoke from their service there; I think that both only asked questions about points of geography.”

“Your recollection is correct,” Thorongil said. He held out his hand. “Could you hand me another apple pasty?”

Gebeorg gave them to him, and refilled his wine for good measure. “Of the others that spoke not,” he continued, “most kept their thoughts to themselves, but Belen and Thalion seemed to care little for your speech.”

“Thalion must have all his thought for the guarding of the Citadel, with little left over for even the first six circles, much less anything beyond Minas Tirith,” Thorongil said. “As for Belen, he shows little care for fine words of any sort, but he listens despite his lack of care. Hithuion it was that I thought showed less attention than the situation warranted. And even Felarúth, though he asked about Ithilien when warranted, seemed distracted—though that, I fear, can be charged to Hithuion as well.”

“They should keep their petty squabbles out of the Steward’s council,” Gebeorg said. “What care we whose wife went where when? A quarter of the town goes to Lady Celebeth’s parties; ‘tis nothing worthy of note.”

“A number of our men have probably managed to obtain invitations for tonight’s party,” Thorongil said. “You might turn a blind eye if they return to the barracks too late or not at all till morn; but if they are drunk at breakfast or too hungover to perform their duties, that deserves chastening.”

“I might even go down there myself once I am ejected from your bedside,” Gebeorg said. “Soldiers, so bravely protecting the country, always have a certain cachet, and soldiers who have been wounded in so doing even more so.” He gestured ostentatiously with his splinted arm. “I am sure to be welcomed in with open arms.”

“Do as you wish,” Thorongil said with a half smile, “but be sure not to speak to or even be seen with Morwen or with Hithuion’s wife—I do not recall her name. Or with Felarúth or Hithuion, should they chance to be there. It would be unwise to be pulled into their disagreements.”

“That I assuredly have no wish to do,” Gebeorg said.

Somewhere far off, the bells rang the hour of sunset. The sound was muffled, but unmistakable. “You should go before the healers have to drive you out,” Thorongil said. “Besides, if you go quickly enough, they will still be serving dinner in the barracks, and you can forget to tell them that you have already supped here.”

Gebeorg grinned and gestured again with his splint. “Brave soldier that I am, I think I have earned two dinners. I shall be back in the morning to be of assistance to you in any way I can, and perhaps even fetch something for you to read if you have been very good and done everything the healers say. Please do not do anything to strain your side until I return.”

“Or after that, either, I suppose you would have me do.”

“Or after that, either. If there is anything heavy you want moved, it can keep until I return. Or anything moved at all. I shall remove those dishes and trays and all before I go.” 

He gathered all the dishes and stacked them on a tray, which he set by the door to take with him. The stand and the extra pillows went back in the cupboard. Thorongil made no objection as Gebeorg fussed around him and made sure he was comfortable. He looked tired; Gebeorg doubted he would stay awake long after he left.

Finally, he stepped back from the bed, content that his captain had been made as comfortable as possible. “Is there anything else you would have me do before I leave?”

“Pull the curtain over the window, if you would,” Thorongil said. “And take the torch with you when you go.” He closed his eyes, and seemed already half asleep; so Gebeorg made no response, but did as his captain had requested, and with torch and tray slipped softly from the room.


	2. Thorongil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“How my heart yearns for Minas Anor and the walls of my own city!” —Aragorn, The Fellowship of the Ring_

The room was quiet when Gebeorg had gone. The stone walls were thick and strong, and with door and window shut, little noise could interrupt Thorongil’s solitude. Not that there was much noise to be blocked: with the wing of the House nearly unoccupied and his window overlooking only the empty greensward and gardens that spread from the building to the city wall, the House was truly a place of serenity and healing.

And Thorongil was prepared to make the most of it. This was the first bed he had slept in in months, and likely the most comfortable bed he had slept in since he had left Edoras, for in Gondor he had never dwelt in the city long enough to let a house of his own. The pillows were exceedingly soft. He tugged lightly at the coverlet, turned his head to the side, and had not time to wonder how long it would take him to fall asleep before he had done so.

 

When he woke, it was to darkness and softness. He blinked his eyes open and wondered why the ground beneath him had lost all firmness, and his cloak as light as a feather. It was not until he tried to sit up and felt the pull in his side that he remembered where he was. He reached up past the head of the bed and pulled the window curtain aside. The sky was not quite fully black, but the stars were visible—perhaps two hours after sunset, then.

It was a strange feeling, waking up in the middle of the night like this. Never before had he awoken in Minas Tirith, walled and guarded as it was from all encroachers. He had no need here to keep watch, for there were multitudinous others to serve that role. But it seemed his sleeping mind had forgotten that, and envisioned him still in the wild. He turned his head to the other side, where the pillow was cool and even softer, as the weight of his head had not yet pressed the feathers together. But still his ears strained for the slightest sound, every instinct imploring him not to go back to sleep. He sighed as sleep flew farther and farther from his grasp.

Were those footsteps somewhere beyond his room, or simply the wind in the trees of the garden? Even if they were footsteps, surely there were those with reason to traverse the Houses of Healing at night. Leechcraft had no set hours of necessity. But Thorongil knew sleep would not come while this disquiet was upon him. Pushing the coverlet aside, he labored to his feet.

His side did not worry him overmuch, for the washing and fresh bandages had eased most of the pain, and he had had several hours of bed rest by now. Still, it did not do to strain an injury, so he took small gentle steps on his way to the door. It creaked as he opened it, despite his care.

A woman was in the corridor, just passing out the door to the main hall. She started at the creak of the door, and half turned.

“My lady!” Thorongil called, for he took her for Finduilas. He had not seen the wife of Denethor since he had attended their wedding the prior year, but she had striking eyes and a jawline that seemed recognizable, even in the dim and flickering torchlight.

Even as he spoke, the woman turned from him, tugging the hood of her cloak to hide her face. She hurried out through the door of the wing and closed it behind her. The porter who normally kept that door was nowhere to be seen.

Thorongil stood still at his door a moment, watching the door where the lady had disappeared. He doubted his identification of her now. The light made recognition difficult, and what would the wife of the Steward’s son have need of in a nearly deserted wing of the Houses of Healing after nightfall?

Whatever it was, it was no business of his. And now that he knew what had awoken him, he might be able to get back to sleep. Nothing was amiss; there was no danger for his senses to warn him of. He closed the door and walked slowly back to the bed. It was easier to climb into than when Gebeorg had helped him into it, three hours prior, with his wound untended; but it was still well off the ground and he took care not to strain his side as he lifted himself onto the bed.

As soon as he lay down again, tiredness came over him like the snuffing out of a torch. Willingly he permitted it to overcome him, for sleep was all he wished for.

 

Alas, sleep seemed elusory that night, and Thorongil woke again while it was yet dark. He sighed immediately in frustration, to be thus wasting his first chance in weeks for a full night’s sleep. For the second time that night, he reached up to the window and pulled aside the curtain. The sky was dark as pitch, save for the stars. Twilight was thus well ended, but the moon had not yet risen, so it was sometime before midnight. Far too early—or too late—to be awakened.

Annoyed, he lay unmoving in the bed. He did not wish to get up a second time just to see some healer on some unimportant errand. His instincts must be all in confusion, to be thus awakening him at unimportant sounds.

From the corridor outside came the sound of soft footsteps, moving swiftly. With a sigh, Thorongil sat up. His side protested the movement with stabbing vigor, but he did not detect any renewed bleeding. Slowly, he slid off the side of the bed and padded across the floor. He could not move with his usual speed, though, so he was unsurprised to find the corridor empty when he opened the door. It had probably only been one of the healers or their servants in any case. Cursing his oversensitive senses, Thorongil once again returned to his bed. His side ached now in earnest, and he relaxed gratefully into the downy pillows and soft mattress. All was silent once again, and he soon drifted off.

 

He woke once more, or at least he thought he did, to the sound of footsteps. He had no wish to get up again. The bed was soft and his side ached, and perhaps this was all a dream. He lay there awhile, and eventually the footsteps ceased, or perhaps he fell back to sleep, or perhaps the dream changed to something unmemorable. He did not know which, and there was no one else who could know either.

 

The next time Thorongil awoke, light was streaming from the window, where he had neglected to pull the curtain fully across when he had looked out in the night. It was fully morning, then. He felt rested enough, despite the interruptions of his sleep, and he felt ready to eat a large breakfast and get on with his day.

He had never known the Houses of Healing to be this loud before. The cacophony was too muffled to make out as it filtered through the stone walls, but there seemed to be a noise of several people talking—or perhaps even yelling. In past visits to the Houses, Thorongil had found them to be calm and quiet at all hours of the day, promoting an atmosphere of healing, with none of this banging around.

He did not particularly wish to wait his breakfast until Gebeorg found his way there, and his side felt comfortable enough after the longest night of sleep he had had in months. Heaving himself carefully into a sitting position, he reached for his boots and outer clothing, which had been left on the table next to the bed.

There were a few bloodstains on his shirt, but he put it on anyway. He had worn much worse at times. When Gebeorg arrived, he would task him with finding a change of raiment and hiring a washerwoman.

He climbed off the bed and sat in a chair at the table to put on his boots. Bending over was a challenge, though not so much from pain but merely tightness in the afflicted muscles. The first boot slipped on easily enough, but the second one simply would not cooperate no matter how he fumbled with it.

There was a knock at the door, and Thorongil bade the knocker enter.

“Do you have need of assistance?” Gebeorg asked, closing the door behind him.

“Nay, I am just finished dressing.” One last tug at the lacings, and the recalcitrant boot finally slipped on his foot. Gebeorg still had not spoken a word of remonstrance for his being out of bed. Stranger and stranger. Standing up, Thorongil looked at Gebeorg’s face for the first time and was dismayed by the distress he saw there. “What has happened? The Houses have been in much more of an uproar this morning, but no one has come to tell me anything.”

“It is Grauadan,” Gebeorg said quietly. “The Guard of the Citadel whom Feniel told us was staying here. He died in the night, and they fear it was murder.”

“Murder? In the Houses of Healing?”

“They say such a thing has never happened before,” Gebeorg said.

“I was wakeful in the night,” Thorongil said. “The sounds of people walking about the House in the night disturbed me when it usually does not. Perhaps I sensed evil afoot.”

“Did you hear aught of the murder?” Gebeorg asked. “A cry perhaps?”

“I do not know what woke me, but the only sounds I heard of a certainty were footsteps.” He did not mention Finduilas; he was unsure of his identification of her, and it would be unwise to embroil the lady if it were not she.

“Well,” Gebeorg said, “I saw no signs of breakfast, or indeed of anything other than standing in the murdered man’s room looking at him. One would not think that such a task required the entire staff of these Houses, yet there they are. If you are fit to walk, I thought we might go to the _Black Boar_ in the fifth circle. You’ll obtain a much better breakfast there than anything you could convince the staff here to make, even if they could be drawn away to the kitchens.”

“Well thought,” Thorongil said. He picked up his cloak from the side table and threw it around his shoulders. “Lead on, then, to the delectable fare of the _Black Boar_.”

 

The corridor outside was quite full. It seemed Gebeorg had scarcely overstated the situation when he said all the staff of the Houses were there. The second door on the south wall of the corridor was open, and all concerned were chattering about what was to be found therein. Thorongil and Gebeorg pushed their way through the throng and continued on to the main hall.

There were a few people in the hall, including the Warden, but none addressed Thorongil or Gebeorg as they made their way out of the building. It was the most disordered that Thorongil had ever seen this place.

“This House is meant to be a place for removing ills, not causing them,” they heard the Warden say, but they were both hungry and did not linger to learn the Warden’s further thoughts on the matter.

 

Gebeorg was well known to the staff of the _Black Boar_ , for whenever he was in the city he found numerous excuses to frequent it over whichever barracks buttery their troop was assigned to.

Inasmuch as he had been in Ithilien, it was weeks since he had crossed the threshold; but as soon as he did so, one of the waitresses hurried up and greeted him warmly. “My lord Gebeorg, welcome! And my lord Thorongil! Welcome to you as well! I am glad to see you both find respite from your labors in the city for a time. Gebeorg, there is no one at your favorite table; it is as if [the fates] knew you would be here today.” She led them to the table in the far corner, and fetched bread and butter. Both men set to before the platter had scarce left her hands.

She departed once more, and returned with ale, and rashers, and a small pot of honey. This time, she seemed in no hurry to leave, but stood watching them eat. The tavern was near empty, so she had no other duties. Thorongil wondered if she liked to see her food appreciated, or if she found Gebeorg attractive. Or himself, he supposed, though if she did he thought there would be few who agreed with her. The years had not yet placed much mark on Gebeorg’s countenance, while more years, and many of them spent in the wild, had roughened his own.

“You are injured, my lord Gebeorg,” she said, when Gebeorg stopped eating long enough to butter another slice of bread.

Gebeorg contemplated his splint as if he had just noticed it, and had certainly not been trying to draw her attention to it in any way with his dramatic butter-spreading gestures. “Lady, ‘tis only a scratch. My lord Thorongil was the only man among us who was seriously injured in the battle.”

She gasped and turned to Thorongil. “You are hurt? That is ill news indeed. Gondor cannot afford to lose its greatest captain.”

Thorongil smiled gently. “My good Gebeorg exaggerates; my own injury is little more than a scratch as well. A few days’ rest and I shall be entirely hale.”

“You have seen a healer, I trust?” she said, gazing earnestly at him with worry darkening her eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “I spent last night in the Houses of Healing, and there are few places better in Middle-earth for leechcraft. And if it pains me in any way, I assure you I shall return there directly. You need have no worries on my account.”

She smiled shyly. “I am glad of it,” she said. “Will you tell me of your most recent battles? You were in Ithilien, were you not? My friend Ellothel said Anórien, but I was quite certain you had gone to Ithilien this time.”

“You are indeed correct,” Thorongil said, grateful that she had not asked further about the Houses of Healing. News of the murder must not have spread, or that would have been the only question on her lips. “There is not much to tell. We chased a few marauding bands of orcs out of North Ithilien, but none of them were large enough to do any serious mischief. Having rendered them unlikely to make any similar attempt in the near future, we returned to our outpost and thence to Minas Tirith.”

“How wonderful,” she whispered. It really was not wonderful at all, and Thorongil wondered why she chose those words over so many others. Even considering that she knew nothing of the horrors of war—an experience sure to make any soldier lose their wonder—the expedition had been without any particular interest for a casual reteller, even as it still held much import for the safety of the land.

“Good lady, might we have another portion of rashers?” Gebeorg asked: only the second time during the meal that he had not had his mouth full.

“Right away, my lord; my lord captain.” Doing them a courtesy, she hurried away to the kitchen. 

Gebeorg watched her go. “A nice lass, that.”

“Do you think so?”

Gebeorg looked at him. “It is not my opinion that matters. She had no eyes for me.”

“Then her eyes want clarity; you have not the wear that my years have given me.”

“No, but I lack the stature and wisdom that those years have given you as well.” Gebeorg sighed. “No matter, for I know that for whatever reason you would not have her, or any other. What do you wish to do today, after we have breakfasted?”

“Yesterday, I thought that I should spend today speaking to the Loremaster or his nephew, to learn what has passed while we were away, and if time allowed, I should visit the Captain of the Guards of the Citadel to learn how goes affairs in the city itself. And at some point in the day, I should visit the men in barracks, and make sure they are well. But recent developments seem likely to take precedence over those activities. Ecthelion will be wanting a report of what happened at the Houses in the night, and I am one of the best suited to provide such a report..”

“I daresay he does want a report,” Gebeorg said. “I would even go so far as to say that it was for the purpose of obtaining one that a member of the Guards of the Citadel just walked into this tavern.”

Thorongil turned quickly, ignoring the pang in his side. He acknowledged the guard with a wave of his hand and a nod, and the man walked over to them immediately.

“My lord Thorongil, Ecthelion requires you to attend him immediately, and your aide as well. If you have need of further breakfast, you may obtain it in the Citadel, for you may not tarry here for longer than it takes you to settle your bill with all speed.”

“As the Steward commands,” Thorongil said, and beckoned for the waitress.

 

Ecthelion was not in the council chamber. The news of the murder had evidently reached him at breakfast, and he had not bothered to leave the breakfast-room, but summoned all who attended him to join him there. His wife and son were there as well, with Denethor’s wife Finduilas and her brother Imrahil. All these would already have been at breakfast with him. Of those whom he had summoned upon the learning what deeds the night had wrought, only Ecthelion’s private secretary Orodion, the Warden of the Houses of Healing, and Istandil of the Hall of Knowledge were present, though Thorongil had spied several others of the Steward’s council crossing the green outside the Tower, and expected their coming close behind.

The Warden was in conversation with Ecthelion when Thorongil and Gebeorg arrived, but Ecthelion immediately held up his hand to cut him off. “Thorongil,” he said. “The Warden tells me you were present in the Houses of Healing yesternight.”

“I was, my lord,” Thorongil said. “My injury is not severe, but I was advised to stay the night there. I learned this morning that Grauadan of the Guard was killed during the time I was there. I did not see him at any time while I was there, but I heard many sounds during the night, and was more wakeful than has been my usual experience. Perhaps naught of what I heard had aught to do with the death of Grauadan, but I am prepared to tell you everything I can recall from the night if that will be of assistance to you.”

“Why did you not come directly to me when you learned of this?” Ecthelion asked.

“It seemed to have little to do with me,” Thorongil said. “I expected that the Warden would have sent news to you immediately, and it also appeared that no one in the House proposed to make breakfast this morning, so I sought it elsewhere and would have come here as soon as I had finished, had you not summoned me before I could do so.”

“We indeed had several patients depart this morning in search of breakfast elsewhere,” the Warden said. “The kitchen staff were distracted by the excitement, but I can assure my lords that all my staff have now returned to their proper duties, and further meals will be served on schedule.”

“See that they do,” Ecthelion said. “Thorongil, tell me of the events of yesternight.”

“I went to sleep early,” Thorongil said slowly. He looked at each of the occupants of the room in turn as he spoke. Ecthelion, Orodion, Imrahil, Denethor, and the Warden met his eyes, while the other three—Istandil and the two ladies—showed interest in aught else but the breakfast table, and exhibited no notice of his gaze. “I woke two or three times during the night—I am not certain which. Each time, I thought I heard footsteps. The first two times, I went to the door of my room to look. I saw a woman just exiting the corridor the first time I awoke, and the second time I saw no one. My injury slowed my movements, so there would have been time for someone in a hurry to be out of sight before I reached the door. The third time, if I even awoke, I remained half asleep and did not go to the door. The footsteps that last time may have been only a dream.”

Four more from the council—Belen, Felarúth, Hithuion, and Thalion of the Guard—had slipped into the room while he was speaking. All looked appropriately solemn and downcast at the news of the death. “You must be unused to the noise of the city,” Hithuion said, “to thus wake at every slightest noise.”

“Perhaps,” Thorongil said. “Or perhaps I sensed evil afoot. I do not know.”

“This woman you saw,” Belen said. “Can you describe her?”

Thorongil shook his head. Watching Finduilas and Denethor closely, he answered Belen’s question how he thought best. “The torchlight was poor, and I did not see her face. She wore a cloak of deep blue or black. Her hair—what little I saw of it—was dark. She was neither particularly short nor particularly tall. She may well have had a legitimate errand in the House, for there was nothing inherently suspicious in her appearance or in her presence in the House.”

“In other words, she was probably just a servant and you were overreacting,” Hithuion said.

“Perhaps,” Thorongil said. Finduilas had clutched her wine glass the entire time he had been speaking, yet she had not taken a drink. Had it been she he had seen? Even now, seeing her in person, he could not say for certain. And it would be highly unwise to accuse her without certainty. She did not look like a murderer. But then, who did?

Denethor turned to his wife and put his hand over hers. A casual gesture of affection, or a secret sign of support from someone who knew she was involved in this whole affair? Thorongil needed to stop asking himself questions before he got pulled to deep into this entire affair. “That is all I noticed in the night, my lord,” he said. “I am sorry that it is not more.”

“Have you any idea when the death of Grauadan occurred?” Ecthelion asked.

“I have not, my lord. I would expect that it was one of the times I woke up—the first time was about the second hour after sunset, and the second, some time before midnight—for otherwise I presume his death would have awakened me as well. Unless he died very quietly. But none of the times I awoke was I absolutely certain of what had awakened me, so I fear I can say nothing for certain.”

“I thank you for your report,” Ecthelion said formally. He turned to the Warden. “Iphannon, you gave a short report when you initially informed me of Grauadan’s demise this morning. Now I wish to hear your full report, with all the particulars you can provide.”

The Warden bowed and stepped forward. “The body was found by a kitchen maid. Grauadan had requested that his breakfast be brought when the first hour rang, and it was in fulfilling that command that the maiden found him. She has served in the House for a number of years, and is accustomed enough to the sight of death that she did not scream or drop her burdens, but left everything as she had found it, and sought me at once.”

Collas and old Belegor walked into the breakfast-room, crowding the room even more but finally completing the complement of the council. The Warden ignored them as he continued. “I immediately followed her to Grauadan’s room and inspected the body. It was not fully cool to the touch, but neither was it near to the warmth of a living body. I would guess that he died after sunset—which indeed he must have, for the same maid cleared away his dinner dishes shortly after sunset and found him in fine health at that time. But he must have been dead by midnight or, at the very latest, the eighth hour of the night, for his body to have cooled so.”

“This maid, do you trust her?” Denethor put in.

“I believe it is nearly four years now that she has served in the House, and in that time I have had no complaints. I believe I understand what you are implying, and indeed I asked her whether she had any acquaintance with Grauadan, but she said not. I also asked the other kitchen maids, and they said not as well. They would have no reason to lie for her, and they all know each other well enough that it would be difficult for her to hide such an acquaintanceship from them. I have no belief that she could have had reason to kill him, nor do I believe she had the capability, for she is meek and loves only the kitchen.”

“Even a kitchen may have knives,” Belen said.

“True, but I do not believe that a kitchen knife was the weapon that killed Grauadan,” the Warden said. “If I may continue: when Feniel fetched me, I examined the body and the room. The room appeared similar to all of our rooms, with no outstanding features. The window in that room is broken—the glass is whole, but the sash has warped and it cannot be opened. I see no way that an assailant could have used the window for entry or egress. The body lay face-down across the bed. At first glance, no wound was visible, but the linen sheet below him was stained with blood, making clear the location of the wound.

“After examining the room and the body as they lay, I had Feniel fetch some of the other healers, and together we turned Grauadan’s body over to lay on its back. The wound then became visible. It was a single stab-wound to the left breast, striking deep and true. The single wound would have caused death within a minute, with no need for any other wounds, and neither did we find any when we examined the body more closely.”

“What about bloodstains?” Belen asked.

“In addition to the largest stain directly below where he had lain, there were various smaller stains farther away on the linen—some underneath him and some not, and stains on the floor as well. Their appearance seems to indicate blood splashing from the wound, though I have not the knowledge of the immediate effects of stab wounds that some of you men of war may possess.”

“Blood would indeed spurt and splash from a stab wound to the chest, as long as the heart continued beating,” Belegor stated. The other soldiers in the room nodded agreement. The Lady Maehenebel, the wife of the Steward, stood up abruptly and murmured something to the Lady Finduilas. Together, the two women walked to the door. “Your pardon, my lady,” Belegor murmured as they passed him.

“No pardon needed, good Belegor,” Maehenebel returned. “I do not wish to hear such details, but neither do I wish to impede the pursuit of justice. Speak as you will now that I am gone, with my blessing.” She swept out of the room, head high, Finduilas in her wake.

“The room has not yet been cleaned,” the Warden continued when they had gone, “and may be visited if any of you wish to view the bloodstains. I do not know if there is much to be read from them, however.”

“Who was present in the same wing of the House as Grauadan in the time period during which he must have died?” asked Ecthelion.

“After Feniel departed from the wing, no one else came in or out until her return in the morning. I asked this of the porter, and he told me the door was locked all night with no entries. He has dwelt there and served the House in that role for nigh on a decade, and I consider him quite trustworthy. I was with Grauadan when he came to the House, and neither of them showed any recognition of the other, so I see no reason to believe he would have any motive for murder. Besides him, there were three patients in the wing: Thorongil, Ceredir, and Cômathol. Cômathol is entirely unconscious and has been for some time. The other two I believe are known personally to most of you gathered here, and I think you would all agree they are quite trustworthy.”

“Is there any chance that Cômathol is feigning his malady?” young Imrahil asked.

“A good question, my lord. Such a long invalidity would indeed be difficult to feign. I have seen the man myself many times during his residence in the House, and I would have been willing to swear to the fact that he was not conscious and had never woken since he came to the House. Yet now I doubt myself. I will not swear to his innocence, yet I urge my lords not to fix their suspicions solely on him to the exclusion of all other considerations.”

“It would seem the room was sewn up quite tidily,” Belen said. “No entry through the window, a locked door at one end of the wing and the city wall at the other, and nobody with motive for murder within the wing.”

“Is there another key to the door of the wing?” Thorongil asked. “Besides the one the porter holds.”

“I do not know, my lord,” Iphannon replied. “I shall inquire.”

“Are you still harping on the maid you thought you saw?” Hithuion said. “I daresay you dreamed her, since it is too long since you have had a woman outside of dreams.”

Thorongil ignored the jibe. “Could any of the other windows be opened, and the wing entered from one of those rooms?”

“I do not think any of the windows can be opened from the outside,” Iphannon said. “I know of a certainty that none of the windows were open that morning, nor were there any marks of trespassers near the building. I dispatched several of the staff to walk round the building immediately upon discovery of the body.”

“Are we certain,” Belegor mused, “that the death was murder, or could it have been self-inflicted?”

“That I do not know,” Iphannon said. “There was no blade in his wound, but it could have been removed in his death throes. He did not seem suicidal when I saw him last, but I do not know his life.”

“If he was killed by another,” Denethor said, “why do you think he was killed? What possible motives might exist to murder this Guard of the Citadel?”

“I cannot say for certain,” Iphannon said. “Grauadan was not well known to me, but I believe his reputation was not as untarnished as that of many of the Guards of the Citadel, such as our good Thalion.” He turned to Thalion and half bowed. “You knew the man better than I; perhaps you could elaborate?”

Thalion stood up and stepped forward. “Grauadan fulfilled his duties well for the most part,” he said. “When he was on duty, I could trust that he would always be exactly where he was supposed to be, and if I charged him with an errand, it was always completed. It was his off-duty hours that concerned me. Grauadan was, perhaps, too popular with the womenfolk. I was forced to address the issue with him when one of his tossed-aside paramours found him on duty at the seventh gate and provoked a screaming argument. He assured me it would not happen again, and indeed I had no further issues with him on duty, but I am certain she is not the only unhappy woman he left in his wake. Perhaps that would be enough to provoke murder, or perhaps not; I do not know.”

“What about money?” Felarúth asked. “Could that have been a motive, whether owing it or being owed?”

“It is possible,” Thalion said, “but if he had money troubles he kept it very quiet. And gambling was never one of his vices. There are others among my guards where that would be my first thought for a motive, but Grauadan never.”

“Can the gamblers among your men be trusted with their current charges?” Denethor asked. “Or should you be less chary with your demotions?” Ecthelion nodded agreement.

“I have never felt there was cause to doubt them,” Thalion said. “But if the Steward so wills, I can remove them from places of authority.”

“Do so,” Ecthelion said.

“As for the motive,” Denethor said, “could this be an indirect strike at my father or his family? The diminution of our guards would reduce our safety and provide more openings for attack.”

“Many things are possible,” Thalion said slowly, “yet I think that killing a single man in this manner would be a very indirect and inefficient method of striking at the Lord of Gondor. The death of one man will make no difference in your family’s safety. But if more of my men follow him in the coming days, then certainly we may suspect such a thing and act accordingly.”

Denethor nodded agreement to this suggestion, and his father as well looked satisfied with the answer.

As no one seemed to have any further questions for him, Thalion reclaimed his seat. For a minute, no one spoke. Several of the men were busy finishing the remnants of the Steward’s breakfast. Thorongil was unsurprised to note that Gebeorg had made his way over there at some point in the proceedings, despite the full breakfast he had already had at the _Black Boar_.

The silence continued, and Thorongil considered whether he wished to fill it. But it seemed to him that all the points he could think of to question at this point, in the full company, had already been raised. He had further questions of his own, but all of them required going to the Houses of Healing and taking a look for himself. He remained quiet.

As the last platter of bread began to be passed from hand to hand, Ecthelion swept to his feet. With speed that belied his reputation as a layabout, Belen took the platter and set it out of sight behind a pillar before the Steward was scarcely upright. Every man present straightened up and exhibited full attention.

“There are no eye witnesses and no known motives for the death of Grauadan of the Guard,” Ecthelion said firmly. “Perhaps one or the other of these may be found, in future. But if those remain lacking, we may never know why Grauadan was killed.” He looked around the room, meeting each man’s eyes. “However, I wish for justice to be done in Gondor, and therefore we will investigate this death to the best of our ability. Thalion, as Captain of the Guards of the Citadel you were one of the men who knew Grauadan best. I require that you assist in the investigation in every way that it may be asked of you, yet I do not wish you to be taken from your other duties, so I shall not ask you to lead it.” He looked around the room again. “As to who shall lead the investigation, I am not yet decided.”

Young Imrahil stood up quickly. “My lord Ecthelion, I pray you, give me this task, that I might serve you.”

“Nay, Imrahil,” Ecthelion replied, though the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “It is a fair offer, but I would have you serve me in other ways for the present. Such tasks belong to others until you are older. Yet I am grateful for your offer. Long may you serve Gondor.” He turned to Belen, who sat near to both his father Belegor and to Thorongil. “What do you do to keep yourself busy these days, Belen?”

“My lord,” Felarúth broke in, standing up from his seat on the side of the room nearest the breakfast table. “I beg you would consider me for this task. Ever since I was invalided home from Ithilien, I have had little opportunity to serve Gondor. Even now, my injury does not allow me to return to the battlefield, and I must sit at home doing nothing except when this council is called together. I would have a proper task that would allow me to serve my country, and you, my lord.”

Ecthelion regarded him gravely. “So be it.” 

Felarúth bowed, a smile on his face. “As my lord commands.”

“As for the rest of you,” Ecthelion said, gazing around the room, “I command each one to give Felarúth such assistance as he may request. It is my desire that none hinder the progress of justice in this matter.”

Felarúth stepped to the middle of the room, so that he could be seen easily by all the company. “To begin, I shall look into the situation personally, and I shall ask what I need of you all when I deem it appropriate. My lord Iphannon, will you accompany me back to your Houses, that I may look there at the place of death?”

Iphannon bowed. “Yes, my lord. A room and meals shall be given to you as well, that naught may hinder your investigation.”

“This matter being resolved for the time, I have no other matters for the council,” Ecthelion said. “This gathering of the council is dismissed.” He clapped his hands for a servant. “Fetch a fresh plate of bread; those have gone stale.” He returned to the breakfast table. Felarúth and Iphannon left the room, and the rest of the council straggled after them.

 

Thorongil followed Gebeorg down the stairs, walking carefully to spare his side. There were fast footsteps on the stairs behind, and then Denethor was there, walking beside him. “A word with you, my lord Thorongil,” he murmured.

“As you wish, my lord Denethor,” Thorongil said. He nodded to Gebeorg, indicating that he should go on ahead, and stepped into the small room that Denethor led him to, directly off of the stairwell.

The room seemed to be Denethor’s study. It was sparsely furnished, with hangings of gray, and the only color provided by a small needlework depicting the ocean. Denethor hung his horn on an oaken stand in the corner of the room, and sat down at the large sturdy desk. He waved his hand towards a nearby chair, which Thorongil took.

“I am about to tell you something which I do not wish to have bruited about,” Denethor said. “I would rather not speak of it at all, but as you are the main witness, it seemed good to me for you to be informed.” 

He folded his hands together on the desk and stared at his hands for a moment. Thorongil wondered if he would even bring himself to speak of whatever it was he had brought him there for, or if he would change his mind and chase Thorongil away from this place of his own that he might well regret opening up to him.

“You are not the only one who was close to Grauadan around the time of his death through no fault of your own,” Denethor said finally. He spoke quietly, but enunciated every word so that it was easy to understand. “My wife, Finduilas, was at the Houses of Healing yestereve, to donate some herbs. Whereas you have many who trust you in the city, so that your presence near Grauadan’s room did not inspire any to doubt you, my wife is still a newcomer in the city and has not gained that same trust. I would not have her dragged into this incident. You saw how she quailed at the talk of blood, this morning. She has not the heart to commit murder; surely you can see that.” Denethor’s voice was still quiet and firm, but Thorongil thought he saw fear in his eyes. Fear that Finduilas had committed the act he denied, or simply fear that she would be blamed for something she had not done? On the whole, Thorongil suspected the latter, for he did not believe that Finduilas had a heart for murder any more than her husband believed it.

“As I stated in my report to the Steward,” Thorongil replied, “I saw no one that I recognized in the Houses of Healing last night.”

“That is all very well,” Denethor said, “but if others mention her visit, I wish you to avoid drawing her into it as well. It was earlier in the evening at any rate, with nothing to do with the incident in question.”

“And she was only donating herbs?” A strange choice, Thorongil thought, to wait until after dark to give a gift that could have been taken at any time.

“Apparently her garden has been producing very well, and she wished to share the wealth. Mallos and marjoram, if I recall correctly what she told me.”

“I am glad for the Houses of Healing that they have such a wise and kind lady assisting them,” Thorongil said. “Is that all that you wished to speak to me about?”

“Yes, yes.” Denethor waved his hand in dismissal. Thorongil stood carefully, and headed to the door. “Thorongil,” Denethor added, and he turned. “I…thank you for your courtesy to my wife.”

“It is no more than she deserves,” Thorongil said. “She seems a fine woman, from what little I have seen her. I wish you both all joy.” Denethor only nodded in response, and Thorongil went out.

 

Gebeorg was waiting for him in the hall at the base of the stairs. “What did the Lord Denethor wish to speak to you about?” he asked.

“Nothing you need mind,” Thorongil said. He doubted Gebeorg would be offended, for he was wise enough to know that in every government, there were some secrets that must be kept.

“Where are we going now?” Gebeorg asked next. “Back to the _Black Boar_ to resume where we left off?”

Thorongil chuckled. “You, my friend, are going back to the barracks to check on the men. If you join them for the noon meal, no one will remonstrate you. I myself am returning to the Houses of Healing.”

“Why?” Gebeorg asked. “It is not that I am unhappy to hear it—you work yourself too hard and I am glad you are allowing yourself time to heal—but you have been walking around the city this morning with scarcely a mind for your injury, and I assumed that you would be returning immediately to normal life as you do so often.” He looked at Thorongil for a moment. “And I find it difficult to believe that this has nothing to do with the man who died there last night.”

“Indeed it has everything to do with it. Grauadan deserves justice, and I fear he may not be given it by Felarúth. Felarúth is moderately skilled in war, but I do not know how well he is able to solve mysteries, to listen to the tales of what happened and tease out the truth from their tangled threads. I have always thought him one to jump to conclusions before he knows the entirety of a matter. Perhaps Ecthelion knows something about him that I do not, but I fear that he was taking pity on a listless injured soldier, and that may not end well. I wish to do some investigating of my own. If Mithrandir were here…” If the Gray Wizard were here, he would be able to poke around in everybody’s business and ascertain the correct answer. There would be no need for Thorongil to get involved. But he was somewhere far from here, who knew where. In Rivendell, perhaps, supping with Elrond and his fair daughter and listening to the songs of elves. Or wandering the wilderness, more like, for Mithrandir was never one to choose comfort over responsibility.

“Yes?” Startled by Gebeorg’s speech, Thorongil glanced up. “You were speaking of Mithrandir,” Gebeorg prompted him.

“Ah, yes. Well, he is not here, and so I must take this upon myself.” If he was to rule this land one day, he could not abandon its people now. “Go, see to the men, and I shall see to this.”

The House had nearly regained its habitual calm, though some of the maids and younger servants were still scampering here and there in a flurry. No doubt a death by violence was the most interesting thing that had happened since any of them had come to this place.

The young woman from the night before was seated at the table in the main hall. Thorongil walked up to her. “You wrote down when I was brought in yestereve. Have you a record of all such visits to the Houses of Healing?”

“I have, my lord,” she said. “It is my duty to sit here from sunup to sundown, for those are the hours in which guests are permitted to come and go from the Houses of Healing. During all other hours, there is no one to mark the coming of guests. If there is an emergency and someone comes to need leechcraft during the night, they must go to the house of the Warden and awaken him. After he has seen to their needs, he comes to my seat and records their coming in the same book that I use.”

“And did that happen last night?”

“Nay, my lord.” She turned the book around so that it faced him on the table, and pointed. “Here, you see, is my last entry yestereve. You, yourself, came here in the last hour before sunset, accompanied by your aide Gebeorg, and then Gebeorg left directly at the hour of sunset, as I recorded here. And on the very next line, as you see, is the coming of the Captain of the Guard of the Citadel, for the Warden sent a servant to fetch him directly we learned of poor Grauadan’s fate.”

Thorongil read through the entries. The previous day had been comparatively tranquil, with only five patients before his own arrival. Bornamath, a Guard of the Citadel with heatstroke. Glassel, a housewife with immoderate blood loss from her monthly visitor. Raen, a silversmith’s apprentice with severe burns. Morwen, a housewife with a cough that she had received treatment for several days prior, and which still distressed her. And Alagnir, a merchant with a bad headache. “I heard people in the corridor in the night,” Thorongil said. “The sounds woke me from my sleep. Is there anywhere else that visits in the night would be recorded?”

“There were no visitors in the night, my lord,” she replied. “Perhaps you dreamed them, or perhaps someone who was already admitted to the House was walking about.”

Her certainty precluded any more information from questions along those lines, so he changed tactics. “Who do you suppose killed Grauadan?”

She frowned in confusion. “Are they quite sure he was killed by another?” she said. “Perhaps he killed himself, or perhaps his health took a sudden turn for the worse, too fast for him to realize it and seek help. Perhaps his injury became infected in the night.”

A stab-wound to the chest was difficult to self-inflict, but if no one had seen fit to inform the staff of Grauadan’s mode of death, then Thorongil thought he should not meddle with spreading that information either. “I suppose that is true,” he said. “By the bye, where in this House do they keep store of herbs for healing?”

“At the end of the same wing that houses your room,” she said. “There is a door at the very end of the wing, that leads to a storeroom set against the city wall, where the herbs will remain cool and fresh. I believe the herb-master is there now, if you wish speech with him.”

“I do wish that,” Thorongil said. “I thank you for your information.” He turned towards the wing that held his room, and left her in his wake, to record his return however she wished.

The door to the wing stood open, its porter obviously called away. Or perhaps he had other duties during the day, when the door need not be so strictly manned. Thorongil was disappointed, for he had wished to have speech with the man; but he was unlikely to get anything more from him than the Warden already had, so it was no great loss.

The herb-master opened the door promptly when he knocked, and welcomed him into the storeroom. It was small and packed full. There were tables strewn with plants, and many bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling to dry, just barely hanging higher than the head of the herb-master, who was quite short. Thorongil’s Númenórean ancestry for once was a hindrance, as he was tall enough that every herb bundle seemed aimed at his face. He found it slow work to simply follow the herb-master across the room.

“Mallos and marjoram, you say,” the man said, fumbling through fabric bundles and wooden boxes that filled the shelves at the back of the room. “I do not have any drying right now, but I may have some from last summer’s crop still remaining. We ought to have more soon, though; I have two plants of marjoram in the garden outside, and I saw some sprouts of mallos the last time I went gathering herbs outside the city, so I have hopes that it will have flowered by the time I go again next week. Ah, here!” He unfolded a napkin to show a few crumbled dry leaves. “I am afraid that this is all the marjoram that I have. Will it suffice for your purposes?”

“Unfortunately, only fresh will do. But it is not a pressing need, and if you have none I will do without.”

“I am sorry I cannot help you, my lord.”

“It is no matter. While I am here, I am curious. Who do you think killed poor Grauadan?”

“The death of a Guardsman is no particular concern of mine,” he replied, “no matter how much the women may gossip and chatter about it as if his death is the only thing about which anyone here in the Houses should be thinking. Neither my herbs nor the healing arts this House provided were of any influence in his death, and thus it does not matter to me. But if I were to guess, I should say it was a soldier. All those who participate in battle gain a taste for blood, such that we who dwell peacefully in our homes and labor for the good of Men do not know.”

The man must know that Thorongil was a warrior, for his gaze held a challenge—one Thorongil did not wish to meet, for he did not wish to make an enemy of any who worked in the Houses of Healing. “A well-thought opinion,” he said. “I thank you for your time.”

He returned to his room to think. Not even in Rivendell would one find such a quiet environment for thinking, for singing was always to be found there. But in the Houses of Healing, such gossips as had not yet exhausted the topic of Grauadan had taken themselves off elsewhere, and the building had resumed its wonted silence. He had plenty of time: time to rest, time to heal, time to think, and time to plan.


	3. Imrahil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“To prudence some heed must still be given.” —Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, The Return of the King_

For Imrahil, life in Minas Tirith had settled into near routine. Breakfast at the Steward’s table, morning in the Hall of Knowledge learning the history of Middle-earth, and afternoon with one or the other of the tutors his father had arranged for him. There was nothing to break up the monotony unless the Steward called a council meeting, and he had not done that since Grauadan’s mysterious death almost a fortnight ago. Ah well, it was a pleasant enough routine to have. Imrahil settled himself onto one of the stools at the front of the hall and beckoned to Istandil. “May I have the next scroll from Chronicles of the Golden Wood?”

Istandil bowed and departed. Imrahil knew from experience that it would be several minutes before he returned. He allowed his thoughts to wander while he waited. Finduilas had been even quieter than usual at breakfast these last few weeks. Imrahil had hoped she would be used to the stone walls and dry horizon of Minas Tirith by now, but if anything she was continuing to grow paler. The death of Grauadan had surely made matters worse—a violent death so near to one’s own home would frighten even much braver souls. But that was many days ago, and it should be passing from her mind. Instead, these last few days Finduilas had scarcely looked up from her plate at breakfast, and spoken only when directly addressed. Her light eating had grown even lighter: this morning, Imrahil had kept an eye on her, and he was quite certain she had only eaten two slices of bread with scarcely any butter, and drunk cup after cup of weak tea. She had not the strength for another downturn in health. Perhaps he should speak to her about seeking treatment in the Houses of Healing. Or perhaps not. After the recent events in that place, perhaps it would be too fearful for her to go anywhere near there.

“The third scroll of Chronicles of the Golden Wood, my lord,” Istandil said, proffering the scroll. “Be careful with it; it is very old and in places has torn almost completely across. Do you desire anything else?”

“Only peace and quiet to read in, and this place offers both in great supply,” Imrahil said. “I thank you, good Istandil.”

Istandil bowed, then looked over Imrahil’s shoulder at a newcomer. “Lady Celebeth! What is your desire?”

“I am not here to read, but to talk,” she said. “I am awaiting the coming of Thorongil, and feel no need to read while I wait, for he shall be here soon.”

Istandil bowed to her, and departed again to the depths of the hall.

Celebeth seated herself on a stool farther down the row and crossed her hands, the picture of perfect waiting. Imrahil stole glances at her while trying to appear enthralled in tales of the Golden Wood and its sorcery. He did not think Thorongil was the type of person who had assignations. And the Hall of Knowledge hardly seemed the place for an assignation—between Imrahil and Istandil, not to mention anyone else who might happen by, there were too many people about; and there were too many bookcases and too little comfortable furniture to do, well, whatever someone might wish to do on an assignation.

“The trees of Laurelindórenan are gold, from whence it takes its name,” Imrahil read. 

Confound it all; he could not concentrate with all these questions flooding his head. He laid the scroll down on the table before him and walked over to Celebeth. “My lady Celebeth,” he said, bowing. Without the time to give it more thought, he was unsure whether Celebeth outranked him; but it was never wrong to show full courtesy to a lady, and in Minas Tirith she had more esteem than a mere outsider like himself, and sometimes esteem counted for more than rank. Thorongil was an example of that; when he had first come to Gondor, he had been only a captain of fortune from Rohan, but the people loved him. Imrahil supposed that was one thing he and Celebeth had in common. He pictured them sitting together talking about how nice it was to be looked up to by the townspeople. That was far too silly, and certainly not why she was here. He wished it were, though—it was something Imrahil hoped would be true of himself someday, and who better to learn from? “We have only met in passing, but I felt I should greet you,” he continued. “I am Imrahil, from Dol Amroth.”

“You are known to me, Imrahil,” she said, “though I have not had the pleasure of long conversation with you. I believe we were introduced at your sister’s wedding?”

“That is so,” Imrahil said. “I am pleased that you remember.”

“I enjoy remembering things,” she replied. “And how do you find Minas Tirith?”

“Cold and dry,” Imrahil said, “but full of good company and stores of knowledge.”

“For one who claims to appreciate good company, you do not go out to seek it often,” she said. “I am having a party on Orbelain evening. You ought to come.”

“Ah, but you see, I am even more appreciative of the stores of knowledge,” Imrahil said, gesturing to the scroll he had abandoned. “But if I have time on Orbelain, I may come. I have heard that you have the finest bakers in all the city.”

“So I have been told,” she said. “Have you any favorite pastry? I shall have them add it to the menu.”

“Well,” Imrahil said, taken aback by her offer, “I have simple tastes. I enjoy wildberry tarts, I suppose. Or any sort of berry, really.”

She laughed. “You have good luck, then, for there are already two types of berry on the menu. Berries are well in season this month. There will be both blackberry tarts and strawberry trifle, and now you see, you must come.”

The door of the hall opened, and they both turned. Thorongil walked in, with Gebeorg at his side. Imrahil relaxed slightly; if Gebeorg was there, this definitely was not an assignation that he was interrupting. “I shall try to make time to visit if such a feast is promised, my lady.” He bowed and turned back to the table, and Chronicles of the Golden Wood.

“Stay, Imrahil,” Thorongil said, striding up to them. “Since you are here, I would have you also hear what the lady has to say.” He bowed to Celebeth, who patted his shoulder with a smile.

“Ah, that’s right, young Imrahil is on the council, is he not?” she said. “And well trusted by my cousin Ecthelion, already. Yes, please stay. And how is your side?”

“Well enough,” Thorongil said. “Time and rest heal many things, and my wound was scarcely large enough to cause distress from the very beginning. I daresay it is healed enough now to return to my normal duties whenever the Lord of Gondor requires it of me.”

“If he does not require it of you before Orbelain, you should come to my party,” Celebeth said. “And pull Imrahil away from his books and make him come too. Or rather, Gebeorg, you should entice them both, for I know Thorongil cares little for parties even if the food is good. I was just telling Imrahil that there will be strawberry trifle and blackberry tarts, and honeyed wine and every sort of meat.”

“The party I wish to discuss this morning is one that has already passed, not one that is yet to come,” Thorongil said.

“I know, but parties to come are so much more interesting!” Celebeth said. Flouncing her skirts, she sat down on one of the tables that were intended for reading. “Before I tell you about my last party two weeks ago, you must promise to come to this next one.”

Thorongil nodded his head. “I shall try. Now, tell me about the party on the night Grauadan was murdered.”

She tipped her head. “Of course there was much I did not see,” she said. “As a hostess, I have many duties and cannot be everywhere at once. But Grauadan was there, I am certain of it. He has never missed one of my parties, and I would have been surprised if he had allowed such a silly thing as being laid up in the Houses of Healing to stop him. Now you do know that his injury was not from one of my parties. Maehenebel herself had a party a week before the one in question. It was a very sedate party until she and Ecthelion retired for the night, but then some extra casks of ale appeared, and a few jugs of something even more potent were being passed around the soldiery. Grauadan got flaming drunk and tripped down a staircase, breaking his ankle and his arm. I was not there to see it; I chose to retire myself shortly after the ale arrived.”

“But to return to your party, the following week,” Thorongil said.

“Ah, yes. So Grauadan had his arm in a sling and was using a crutch, but he seemed in good spirits, at the beginning of the evening at least. He got more drunk as the party went on, and it seemed to me more angry as well, but if he had any altercation I was not there to see it.”

“Were there any altercations that you _did_ see?”

“There are always altercations at any party, no matter how smoothly run and perfectly planned,” she said. “I doubt the first is one that would interest you; Amdirdhir and Demben have both expressed romantic interest in Meduiel, and it was at that party that their animosity ripened into blows. Of course, she had no interest in either of them—for who would want a man that eager to hurt others?—and went off with Gellamdir, which further vexed the two combatants. I had to ask them both to leave.”

“And did they leave?” Thorongil asked.

“They knew better than to argue with me if they ever wished to be invited again.”

“And are they?” Imrahil asked, though he was not sure whether it mattered.

“Not for this coming party on Orbelain,” she said, “for I would have them know that I am displeased with their behavior. But I believe I shall invite them to my next party next month, and give them one more chance to behave.”

“You said that was the first altercation,” Thorongil said. “Were there then more?”

“Yes,” she said, “and the other one will be more of interest to you, for the men involved are on Ecthelion’s council and thus known to both of you.” She folded her hands in her lap, swinging her legs slightly as she sat on the table. “Hithuion I had not invited, but captains of Gondor are always welcome at my parties, and so the servants at the gate knew to admit him. I must point out, Thorongil, that you are a captain as well, and would be welcome at any party, not only this upcoming one.”

“I have suggested he accompany me on multiple occasions,” Gebeorg said. He was leaning against the wall taking his ease, but Imrahil doubted he had missed anything of what had been said. “He has yet to consider any party—not just yours—a worthwhile use of his time.”

“Well.” She sniffed. “So Hithuion was there, and I believe before everything started he was speaking to his wife Tadiel and to her friend Morwen. Then Morwen’s husband Felarúth arrived. Felarúth is of course also a captain, and was also admitted without an invitation. He had words with Hithuion, quiet but angry. They both went inside, leaving their wives behind, and I could not follow because one of the singers I had hired was complaining about the temperature—it is a garden party in the fourth circle, I do not know why she expected she would be warm enough in that thin dress—and I was very busy talking her out of leaving. She realized, though, that if she ruined my party by leaving me without entertainment, that I would make certain none of my friends ever hired her, and so she sang anyway. She had a beautiful voice; she claimed it would not sound as good because she was shivering, but I am sure none could tell the difference.

“I stayed outside the entire time she was singing, for I did not want to chance her having a change of heart. When she had finished and departed, I went inside, but neither Hithuion nor Felarúth was anywhere about. Hithuion and Tadiel said good-bye to me less than an hour after that, but Felarúth and Morwen must have left without saying good-bye. I do not know whether they left separately or together, but they certainly arrived separately.”

“Did any of them interact with Grauadan?” Thorongil asked.

“Not that I saw,” Celebeth said. “That is, not at this party; but I have seen Grauadan speak to both Morwen and Tadiel in the past. He and Morwen seemed great friends for a while last year, but either their ardor has cooled, or they have grown more circumspect. I would not presume to say which.”

“Were there any women that Grauadan did show attention to on that evening?”

“Oh yes, he was no shyer than he is usually. He spoke to three or four at least when I was around; none that I can recall specifically except for Meduiel, who was no more interested in him than she was in Amdirdhir or Demben. He exhibited improper behavior with none of them, but then even if he were so inclined, he knows better than to do anything at a party in public.”

“Could Grauadan have gone into the building while Hithuion and Felarúth were inside?”

“I do not know,” she said. “I suppose it is possible; I was not paying any particular attention due to my concerns over the music.”

Thorongil frowned. “That is all I wished to ask you about,” he said, “unless there is anything further you think I should know.”

She shook her head as she got to her feet. “No, I do not think so. Be careful not to get yourself too embroiled in this, nor you either, Imrahil. There are more important things than justice for one man who was never a particularly good person, and I would not have your capability for service to Gondor diminished by association with this scandal.”

“The Steward expressed a wish for justice to be done for Grauadan,” Thorongil said.

“Many people wish for many things,” she said. “Not all of them are prudent.” She walked to the door, then turned and did them all a courtesy. “I expect to see you all on Orbelain,” she said. “Do not forget!”

They bowed as she departed. Imrahil did not yet return to his scroll, waiting to see whether Thorongil would leave in turn. This he did not; instead, he settled himself on the table where Celebeth had sat, and crossed his arms. “It is more information than she might have had, and yet less than I had hoped,” he said.

“What did you hope for?” Imrahil asked.

“I already knew that Grauadan had been at her party on the fateful evening,” Thorongil said. “It was her mention of that when I saw her in passing yestereve that made me beg further speech of her as soon as was convenient. I had hoped that she had seen him in speech with someone, or perhaps overheard something that might indicate a motive for murder.”

“What of the argument between Hithuion and Felarúth?” Gebeorg asked. “A continuation, I expect, of the one we saw that morning.” He turned to Imrahil. “It was before you arrived, since you got lost. But you did not miss much: just anger and snide comments about their wives’ fidelity.”

“Since none of them interacted with Grauadan, it is unlikely to be connected,” Thorongil said. “Though it increases my doubts as to Felarúth’s suitability as investigator for the Steward.”

“Have you other reason to doubt him?” Imrahil asked. Thorongil looked at him but did not answer. “Whatever your answer, I shall not spread your words further,” he hastened to add. “I wish to know only for my own benefit, that I may avoid placing trust in him if that is the wiser move.”

Thorongil frowned, but spoke. “I am inclined to believe that he has taken this role for his own benefit—glory before the Steward and perhaps relief of boredom as he claims—and not out of a wish for justice.” He sighed, and stepped closer to Imrahil so that he could speak quietly. “I have not investigated the murder, for Ecthelion did not assign that duty to me, but I have asked some questions. The day after the murder was discovered and Felarúth set to his task, Felarúth came to my room in the Houses of Healing and told me had heard that I was asking questions. He told me he did not want me to interfere: that this was his duty and his alone. I agreed to leave the matter alone, and insisted he tell me if he needed assistance in any way. Unsurprisingly, he has not requested any assistance.”

“And you think it is because he wishes all the glory to himself?” Imrahil asked.

“There are some who think that glory is in short supply, and a gain by one is necessarily a loss by another,” Thorongil said. “Those who think that way generally do not deserve what glory they do receive, but ‘tis better to let them fight over credit than to stand in their way. My time is better spent on other matters than helping in a small matter where I am not wanted.”

Imrahil nodded. “I have oft noted the same thing among my father’s counselors,” he said. “Some will argue for hours about some duty which they think will bring them esteem, while letting the tasks that have more work and less reward fall to whomever they may. It is the ones who take those latter tasks that I think my father trusts most.”

“A wise choice,” Thorongil said. “It is good that you know enough to note the difference. You would do well both to be among those latter, and to learn how to identify them for when you rule Amroth in his stead.”

Imrahil bowed agreement to his statement, and changed the subject. “Had you learned much from the questions you were asking, before you stopped at Felarúth’s behest?”

“Very little,” Thorongil said. “No one I spoke to knew much, and when I viewed the dead man’s room I learned little from it as well. I have some skill in reading what has passed from the signs it leaves behind, but the signs I know well are bent blades of grass and misplaced pebbles, not splashes of blood.”

“I did not see Grauadan’s room at all,” Imrahil said. “Will you tell me what little you did learn?”

“I satisfied myself that the window could not be opened, just as they claimed. There was no weapon in the room, so it could not have been suicide unless the weapon stayed in the wound and was taken out with the body, and I believe the Warden would have mentioned if that were the case. The blood had splashed all over, but I think the center of it was the bed, specifically the place where the body had lain. I suppose it is possible that such stains could have come if he fell forward with force onto a knife. If he was stabbed by some other, which is still what I believe, he must have fallen forward onto the bed as he died.”

Imrahil frowned. These things Thorongil spoke of were quite beyond his ken. He had heard of murders in Dol Amroth, but none since he was old enough to be allowed onto his father’s council and not sheltered from wagging tongues in the nursery or schoolroom. Even in his martial training, the worst wound he had seen was a graze along a man’s scalp, which had bled freely but not splashed. Perhaps when he returned to Dol Amroth, his father would think him old enough to join actual combat and he could gain more knowledge of such things. He was not a child anymore.

A guard clad in black and silver stepped through the door of the hall, and they all turned. He started to walk past them to the back of the hall, then stopped. “My lords,” he said. “I was sent here seeking Istandil, but I believe you are all wanted as well. Ecthelion has called for his counselors to wait upon him as soon as may be.” He bowed, and continued towards the back of the hall to seek Istandil.

Thorongil and Gebeorg immediately started for the door, and Imrahil followed them. He hoped Istandil would not object to his leaving the scroll unattended; he probably ought to have rolled it back up, but by the time he thought to do so, he was already half across the pavement between the Hall of Knowledge and the White Tower. No matter: it could lay there until his return, for who would molest it in the Hall of Knowledge?

Only Ecthelion, Orodion, Denethor, and Felarúth were in the council chamber when they arrived, but Thalion and Istandil were not long behind them. They all sat in silence, for none had the heart for idle gossip while the Lord of Gondor gazed at them from his dark and weighty chair. Denethor darted more than a few glances at either Thorongil or Imrahil himself; Imrahil could not tell which. It had probably been unwise for him to enter so obviously in Thorongil’s company; there was no love lost between him and Denethor, and Denethor would no doubt be suspicious of Thorongil’s motives in associating with Denethor’s kinsman. Imrahil would have assured him that there was no need to worry, but that would only have increased Denethor’s suspicion, and so he said nothing. He found these days that there were many times when it was better to say nothing. Perhaps when he was older, then he would have the wisdom to know what to say more often; but until then he was willing to keep his silence as often as needed.

Belen and Belegor walked in together, Belen walking more slowly than sometimes so that his father could lean on his arm. He assisted Belegor into one of the chairs nearest the Steward, then leaned against a nearby pillar.

“Need we wait for Hithuion and Collas?” Felarúth asked.

“I suppose not,” Ecthelion said. He stood and stepped forward. “Know ye this,” he said formally. “My faithful servant Felarúth has investigated the death of Grauadan to the best of his ability. He will now report what he has learned.”

Felarúth stood up in turn. “In my investigation of the death of Grauadan, I spoke to many people, and I carefully observed both the room where he breathed his last and the building all around it. Several of those I spoke to among Grauadan’s comrades in arms said that he had seemed sad recently: not simply the pain of his broken bones, but sad of heart. And when I searched his room more thoroughly than the initial search done by the Warden and his staff, I found a bloodied knife that would seem to be the weapon that killed him. Those same comrades all identified it as belonging to Grauadan. It is therefore my belief that Grauadan killed himself by falling upon his knife. The knife was found under the table next to the bed and not in the wound, so it must have fallen there at some point after his fateful action, either in his death throes or in the confusion after the body was discovered. I am sorry to make this report, for I hate to believe that a Guard of the Citadel could value his life so lightly; but since this does appear to be what happened I am glad that we did not accidentally find an innocent to blame for the murder.”

He sat down, and Ecthelion spoke again. “So let it be written in our annals, that such was the fate of Grauadan of the Guard. Thalion, I do not wish that any should follow in his footsteps. Speak to your commanders and make sure they are paying attention to the men under them, that they may be given the counsel and support they need. This matter is now closed. Send word to Iphannon that the room where Grauadan lay may be cleaned and reused, for we have no further need to inspect it.

“This matter being resolved, I turn to other pressing matters,” Ecthelion continued. “This morning, one of my errand-riders brought news from Emyn Arnen of a sighting of Haradrim. Only two were seen, but it is unknown what sort of force accompanies them. It could be a force of war, though even a scouting force would be bad enough. Thorongil, has your wound healed enough for you to travel?”

“Yes, my lord Ecthelion,” Thorongil said. “It has reknit itself almost completely and shall not slow me at all.”

“Get your company ready to ride at once,” Ecthelion commanded him. “The errand-rider will meet you at the barracks and accompany your troop. If it is a scouting force, kill them or capture them as you think best, and follow their trail to determine whence they come. If a force of war, send news back to the city at first opportunity, and take such further action as you deem wisest.”

“As my lord commands,” Thorongil said, bowing. He beckoned to Gebeorg, and the two left the hall. Denethor seemed pleased to see the back of him again; he did not smile but Imrahil read it in his eyes. He suspected that the assignment of Thorongil to this task might have been Denethor’s idea—but he could not argue that Thorongil and his company were not a good choice for the task. If they had not been, Denethor would not have suggested them, for whatever his thoughts about Thorongil, Denethor was far more concerned about Gondor.

“This gathering of the council is dismissed,” Ecthelion announced, and Imrahil stood quickly. He wished to speak to Thorongil before he left the city, and that did not leave him much time. Felarúth’s report had left him with questions. He wished Thorongil had had opportunity to speak during the council meeting, but speech with him afterward would be better than naught.

Thorongil and Gebeorg were already out of sight when Imrahil emerged from the tower. Imrahil crossed the pavement at a run. He passed the dead White Tree without a second glance, his eyes fixed on the gate of the Citadel. As close kinsman to the son of the Steward, he was free to pass through the gate whenever he chose, and the guards there waved him through without stopping him for questions.

There was still no sign of his quarry when he entered the sixth circle. Imrahil feared he might choose wrongly and miss them completely. Could they have gone to the stables, or continued directly on to wherever their company was quartered? There was no time to waver over his decision. The Houses of Healing were nearby; he would start there.

Thorongil was not in the room in the Houses where he had been staying, but there were signs of his presence: a spare cloak, a book, some papers with annotations in what Imrahil suspected was Thorongil’s own handwriting. With any luck, he had chosen aright and Thorongil would be returning to retrieve his belongings. In the meanwhile, he might as well make himself useful; he gathered the items on the bed and packed them all in the cloak. He did not tie off the bundle, for he did not know if Thorongil would want all the things he had left here; but at least it might save the man a minute that he might not otherwise be able to spare for conversation.

There were quick footsteps in the hall that had scarcely had time to register in Imrahil’s ears, and then Thorongil was standing there in the doorway. “I packed for you,” Imrahil explained hurriedly.

“Ah.” Thorongil stepped forward to the bed and glanced through the papers, tossing them into two stacks.

“You told me that there was no weapon to be found in Graudan’s room,” Imrahil said.

“I did,” Thorongil said. Finished dividing the papers, he added one of the stacks back to the cloak and rolled it up around the contents.

“Were you mistaken?”

“Perhaps Felarúth went there before me and simply did not mention that he had done so,” Thorongil said. “I looked at the room on the same day that the murder was discovered, but he could have been there earlier in the day.”

“Do you think that is the case?”

“I do not know.” Thorongil sighed, and slung the cloak roll over his shoulder.

“Do you think Grauadan killed himself?”

Thorongil halted his hurried endeavors and looked fixedly at Imrahil. “Ecthelion and Felarúth have said that is so.”

“Yes, but do you think so?”

Thorongil shook his head. “Personally, I think it doubtful.”

Imrahil sat on the side of the bed and crossed his arms. “Who do you think killed him?”

Thorongil shook his head again. “We may never know.”

“But you have a suspicion, do you not?”

Thorongil shook his head and turned to the door, avoiding Imrahil’s gaze. “I must go.”

Loath as he was to press further, Imrahil did not feel he could drop the matter now. “Some have said my sister was there on the night of the murder. Do you believe she was involved? Is that why you will not tell me all you think in this matter?”

Thorongil sighed, and turned back to face him. “Your sister has not the look of a killer. I do not think she killed Grauadan. But I fear her involvement may have impeded the course of justice in this matter. It seems to me that Ecthelion and Denethor fear that your sister’s presence on that night may not be able to be hidden if the investigation progresses. And perhaps that is a worthy thing to fear, for she is the wife of the next Lord of Gondor, and it would be unfortunate if an incident she had nothing to do with caused her reputation to be dragged in the mud.”

“And you think she is innocent,” Imrahil said. Of course he had always thought she was innocent himself, but how could he think otherwise of his sister? Thorongil’s opinion would be far more measured and meaningful than his own, and it comforted his soul that he did not doubt her either.

“I have little reason to believe otherwise,” Thorongil said. He stepped closer to Imrahil and spoke quietly. “I do not know if Felarúth reached his conclusions on his own, or if he was encouraged to bring the investigation to an end. You, my friend, are a young man in an unfamiliar big city. It would not behoove you to involve yourself further in this matter. ‘Twould be wisest to stay with your books and stay out of trouble, looking out for your sister and for your own future.”

“And what of you?” Imrahil asked. “Will you now be staying clear of the matter?”

“Walk with me,” Thorongil said. He strode down the corridor and Imrahil followed him. “I must needs leave the city for a time now, no matter what I might wish,” he said. “When I return, perhaps the time that has passed will provide the distance necessary to make things clearer. If so, I will see what further there is that can be learned about the matter. But in any case, there is no more that I can do now.” He turned to the maid who sat always at the desk in the hall. “I am departing now, Gonedis,” he said. “I have taken all my belongings from my room.”

“We are all glad to see you healed, my lord Thorongil,” she said, and took up her pen to record their departure.

Gebeorg was at the gate of the House, astride his horse and holding the reins of Thorongil’s. Thorongil turned to Imrahil and bowed. “Farewell, for a time,” he said. “Perhaps when I return, there will be more pleasant topics available for conversation.”

Imrahil nodded. “I have been reading Chronicles of the Golden Wood,” he said. “I believe I shall have finished them when you return. Perhaps we could speak of the Golden Wood, from whose lord my land took its name. Surely in your travels you must have heard some tales of that place which I have not heard.”

“There are indeed many tales of that place, not all of them true,” Thorongil said. “Yes, we shall speak of it some day.” He bowed, and mounted his horse. “Farewell, Imrahil,” he said.

“Farewell!” Imrahil said. They wheeled their horses and trotted away. There was nothing further for him to do here, for the hale would always be out of place in the Houses of Healing. He began to walk back up the slope toward the Citadel and the Hall of Knowledge. He would do as Thorongil had advised and not seek any further solution to the mystery of Grauadan’s death. But there would be many other opportunities to serve Gondor in the future, and he wished to prepare himself as well as he might, that Ecthelion might trust him with such duties in the future.


	4. Faramir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Strange chances, but murder will out, 'tis said.” —Faramir, The Two Towers_

In the last year of the Third Age and the third of the reign of King Elessar, Gondor seemed near recovered from the sorrows that had ravaged it. The King had placed all things in order in the years that had followed his return, and although there was still much to be done—as there would always be much to be done—there was time for lesser worries. For the tending of flower gardens and the preparing of banquets and the treasuring of lore.

Of late, Faramir spent most of his days in Emyn Arnen in South Ithilien, but he still journeyed regularly to Minas Tirith to haunt his old home and to assist in the settling of old affairs. This day, he was reading old records from the Houses of Healing. Ever since the war, he had felt a great affinity for that place, for it was there that he had met both his wife and his King. Its Warden was a wise master of lore, but the King did not wish him to be the only person who knew the workings of the Houses, so Faramir had volunteered to read the histories of that place. 

It had been long hours, but he had nearly reached the days that he had been alive for; there were more names that he recognized as the year of his birth drew closer in the records. The records were also more complete as they became less old; at this point there were separate volumes for each year, whole enough that he could carry them around instead of sitting carefully at a desk in the Hall of Knowledge.

Returning from nuncheon, he lifted the volume for 2977 from the pile the Loremaster had left for him. 2977 was the year before Boromir was born. If he kept up this pace, perhaps he would be caught up to the time of his own birth by the morrow.

An apprentice healer hired…an epidemic of the red sickness in the springtime…the events blurred together after a while, lulled by his postprandial sleepiness. An admission to the war injuries wing, scarcely used in those days of comparative peace, and another admission a few days later…and a death, that night. Not the sort of death that was usually seen in the Houses of Healing—old age or extensive injury getting the better of the healers—but a mysterious death by violence. Faramir recalled hearing the Warden mention, long ago when he was scarce more than a lad, that only once had blood been shed intentionally with the walls of the Houses, but he had assumed it was centuries ago, not so soon before he was born.

He placed a wide ribbon in the book to mark the place, then continued reading. The book did not name the man’s killer, but perhaps an entry was made later if the killer had not been immediately identified at the time. He read quickly, but even so, he had scarce managed to finish the volume when the bells rang the eighth hour and he hastened to the White Tower for his afternoon meeting with the King.

 

The halls of the White Tower were light and airy now. No more the dark draperies of his youth, that felt as if the entire building were mourning the death of his mother. Now the draperies were bright, with gaily colored silks and white linen to catch the sunlight, and lamps in every corner that the sun could not reach.

The door of the King’s study opened as he approached it; the captain of their most recently returned company was departing, doubtless having reported on their fighting in the south. Faramir nodded to him as he passed, and entered the room himself.

The King greeted him with a smile and an apology. “The Loremaster was here this morning, and I have not yet cleared away all the scrolls and documents he insisted I needed to peruse. Derphen was willing to stand, for his report was short, but I shall not ask you to do so.” He stood up and, finding the emptiest chair, started to distribute the scrolls it contained between the other chairs, ignoring Faramir’s protests that he had no objection to standing. “You will be glad to hear that from Haudh in Gwanûr to the crossing of Harnen, Derphen found none that was willing to offer him battle. Harondor is the safest that it has been in centuries, and so is Ithilien.”

“Considering that I left my wife there alone, I am very glad to hear it,” Faramir said. “Though I would trust the good Beregond and his hand-picked troop against most any enemy that did choose to present themselves.”

“How goes your reading?” Aragorn asked. He shoved the emptied chair with his foot so that it slid in front of his desk, and sat down in his own chair on the other side.

“Well enough,” Faramir said. “Dry and terse for the most part, as is the affliction of most records. But today I found something of interest.” He pulled the chair up so that he sat at the desk and opened the book to face Aragorn. “In 2977, a man died by violence in the Houses of Healing, and I can find no indication that his death was ever satisfactorily explained. The Warden writes that some called it suicide, but that he himself doubted that explanation. The man was one of four patients in the wing for war injuries—the most people that were resident in that wing at any point during that year, so far as I can tell.”

Aragorn peered at the tome. “I have heard of this incident,” he said. “Ecthelion eventually agreed to declare it a probable suicide, yet many doubted that explanation, myself among them. The mystery was never solved, then? I had hoped that after I left, some other clue might be uncovered, but there were too many with reason to leave the truth of the matter hid, and too few who wished justice to be done.”

“I know that you spent time in Gondor before I was born,” Faramir said. “Were you anywhere about when the incident occurred, or did you only hear of it afterward?”

“‘Tis a funny thing,” Aragorn said. “I was actually present in the same wing of the Houses of Healing as the man who died. I was scarcely injured, but I was prevailed upon to dwell there overnight. It was that night that Grauadan was killed.”

“Of the patients who were there that night, Ceredir was known to me in my childhood, and Cômathol died later the same year,” Faramir said. “So you must be Thorongil!” It was an unexpected revelation. When Aragorn had mentioned his past in Gondor, Faramir had always assumed he had visited briefly and kept a low profile—not spent years as one of Ecthelion’s most trusted captains.

Aragorn nodded. “My room was three doors down from Grauadan’s, yet I was of no help to him. None in that House were.”

“And even after his death, he received no justice,” Faramir said. “We have dispensed justice to many people in the last few years, and here is one more who has not yet received it. I wonder if this mystery could be solved now, after all this time.”

“If you wish it, I will give you leave to investigate the matter,” Aragorn told him. “Yet I must warn you: you might be happier to leave the matter unsolved.”

Faramir glanced up quickly, worried at his tone. “Why?”

“The night that Grauadan was killed, I was wakeful in the night. Perhaps I sensed evil afoot; I do not know. At any rate, I was awake to hear footsteps in the night. Twice I left my room to look for the source of the sound. The second time, I saw no one, but the first time, I saw a woman. I could not be certain of her identity, for I saw her briefly from behind in dim torchlight. In my report to your grandfather, the Lord of Gondor, I stated that I did not know who she was, for indeed I was not at all certain, and only described her: neither short nor tall, with dark hair and a dark cloak.”

“That could describe many women,” Faramir said uncertainly. It also described one certain woman, one whom he recalled better than most others, and who would not have aged much from when Aragorn saw her to when Faramir was born six years later.

“It could indeed,” Aragorn said. “But I also saw the curve of her jawline, and though it was but a flash of recognition, I felt certain that the Lady Finduilas was in that wing of the Houses of Healing that night.”

“But why?” Faramir asked. “My mother was no murderer. She could scarce bring herself to kill an insect; what reason could she have that would be strong enough to bring herself to kill a foot-soldier of the Guard? Did she even know the man?”

“Those are the questions you will have to investigate, and answer to the best of your ability, if you choose to investigate this Guardsman’s death,” Aragorn said. “If it is some assurance to you, I will tell you this: I only met the Lady Finduilas a score of times, but I saw no heart for murder in her. Your father, as well, seemed certain that whatever her reason for being there—for he was the only other who showed knowledge that she had been present at the Houses of Healing that night—that she had not killed the man. You need not worry overmuch, I think. But if you do not wish to pursue this matter, you need not. Grauadan of the Guard has laid at rest for more than forty years now; no action you take now will either disturb or sweeten his rest.”

Faramir looked down at his hands and did not answer him. He knew not if he could bring himself to cast darkness on his mother’s memory, yet if he did not, he was impeding the course of justice. He wrung his hands together and waited; he knew Aragorn would give him all the time he needed.

While still he sat in thought, there was a knock at the door. Time had passed faster than he realized, and the King’s other counselors were arriving for the afternoon meeting. The King stood once again to insist upon clearing parchments from chairs and argue over their disposition.

In distraction, Faramir rose from his chair, so as not to impede their arrangements. “Faramir!” his cousin Elphir greeted him warmly. “I have scarce seen you since you arrived from Emyn Arnen.”

Faramir smiled at Elphir. “I have been locked away in my study too much, trying to read as much as I can in the short time I will be in the city. Will you be in the city long?”

“I know not,” Elphir said. “That is the decision of the Prince my father. We traveled here together and shall remain as long as he wishes.”

“If you depart from the city at the same time as I, perhaps you may accompany me, and tarry in Emyn Arnen on your way south,” Faramir said.

“I should like that,” Elphir said. “But before that, you must join us for dinner some evening. I would hear news of Ithilien, and of your married life.”

The chairs were soon arranged, and the half-dozen counselors sat down around the desk of the King. As was his habit, Elphir sat next to his father, and Faramir took the seat on Imrahil’s other side.

This was merely an informal meeting, for the King to hear advice on such topics as he wished it, and for such questions to be raised as the counselors wished, without need for ceremony or extensive record-keeping.

Tossing a last armful of scrolls into a convenient corner, Aragorn assumed his own seat. He turned to Faramir. “Have you reached a decision on the topic we were discussing earlier? I leave the choice up to you.”

Faramir took a breath. “We should investigate the matter,” he said firmly. “In so doing, names may be cleared or they may be tarnished, but in either case justice will be pursued.”

“So be it,” Aragorn said. He turned to Golundil the Loremaster. “There was an incident in 2977, a death by violence in the Houses of Healing. It was entered in the records of the Houses, and this Faramir brought to me, but the record is terse and vague. There would have been another record, made by the Steward after his investigation was ended, in the book of crimes and offenses. Think you that you could find that record?”

“I can, my lord,” Golundil said. “I shall go immediately. I know generally where it is, but I will not be able to put my hands on it immediately.”

“We will await your return,” Aragorn said. Golundil bowed and departed.

“I was saddened that the case was never touched again,” Imrahil reflected. “At the time, I felt certain that it had not been the suicide they claimed it to be, and I was irked that few seemed to share my views.”

“I wish that I could have looked into it further,” Aragorn said. “When I left, I expected to be away from the city for little more than a week. But when in the field, new information always arises to change the scope of the errand. The force of Haradrim turned out to be unallied folk who had struck off on their own after being cast out of Harad for crimes unspecified. But we had to track them nearly to Harad to learn this, for of course none of their own volunteered the information during our one brief parlay. And then, being so far south, other dangers arose and we found we could not return to Minas Tirith by the shortest route. We fought some and aided others of those we found in Harondor, which was nearly deserted at the time and claimed by both Gondor and Harad. We learned how strong Harad had grown, particularly Umbar; and by the time we returned to Minas Tirith, nearly a year later, all my thoughts were focused on how Gondor might defend its southern fiefs, with little thought for a long-dead Guardsman whom none spoke of.”

“Your words call another duty to mind,” Faramir mentioned, for there was no need to discuss the incident further until Golundil returned. “Have you decided how we shall respond to the ambassador from Umbar? He has cooled his heels in our second-finest guest house for nigh on a week, and we must answer him soon or he will take it for rudeness.”

The meeting continued: the reply to the ambassador was determined, the latest news from Nurn was discussed, the need for upkeep of the beacons was raised. As Faramir was about to mention the messenger they had had yestermorn from Isengard, Golundil returned, leather-bound volume in hand. All other topics immediately lost their luster, and conversation hastened to a halt. At the King’s command, Golundil stood before them and read the record.

“In the twenty-fourth year of the lordship of Ecthelion,” he read, “Grauadan, a man of arms in the Second Company of the Citadel, died in the night of a stab wound to the chest while resident in the Houses of Healing. At the behest of the Steward, Felarúth, a captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, took upon himself the investigation of the death of Grauadan. In due time, Felarúth determined that Grauadan had most likely killed himself for reasons unknown. Grauadan’s knife was found in his room under a table, and few others could have accessed his room, nor was there any known to have motive to wish Grauadan’s death. This conclusion being reached, the investigation was therefore disbanded, and Felarúth returned shortly thereafter to service in Ithilien.”

The listeners shifted in their chairs as Golundil sat down. “The appearance of that knife always puzzled me,” Imrahil said. He turned to Aragorn. “It has been many years, yet I do not doubt my memory. You had been in that room the day after the death, and the very morning that the investigation was concluded, you told me that you had seen no weapons. I cannot imagine that a bloodied knife would have escaped your notice.”

“You are right,” Aragorn said. “I was there, and I am certain there was no knife. Either Felarúth was gravely mistaken and inept, or someone slipped a knife into the room after Grauadan’s death—which therefore must have been murder, not suicide—and Felarúth was fool enough to fall for it. Either way, Felarúth does not seem to have managed the investigation wisely.”

“You were there, my lord?” inquired Mablung, who was seated at Faramir’s left. “Were you in Gondor long?”

“I served Ecthelion for nigh on a decade,” Aragorn said. “Around that time, I was one of his captains. But of more import to the case of Grauadan was the fact that I had received a slight injury in battle, and was thus present in the Houses of Healing on the night in question.”

“All injuries become slight in memory,” Imrahil said, “except for those that grow in the telling. If you had claimed so at the time, I am sure your aide would have begged to differ.”

Aragorn smiled slightly. “Gebeorg was always one to overreact when I was concerned. I have had many far worse injuries in my lifetime, so it was indeed slight. Scarcely enough to need tending, much less a night in the Houses of Healing.”

“Who else was in the Houses?” Faramir asked.

“In the wing in question—for anyone in the other wing can be discounted, for they would be as unable to access his room as any outsider—there were four. Myself; Grauadan; Ceredir, who was nearly a hundred by that point and respected by all; and Cômathol, who was unconscious from a blow to the head in battle, but some questioned whether he was feigning his malady to have access to Grauadan.”

“He died two weeks after the investigation was concluded,” Imrahil said, “without ever regaining consciousness. That would seem to indicate that his injury was unfeigned, and thus vindicate him.”

“That would,” Aragorn said. “Unless there is any chance that Cômathol committed suicide out of guilt?”

“I thought of that at the time,” Imrahil said, “but there was no sign of foul play or violence. The healers said that he simply failed to continue breathing.”

“And this is all we know about the circumstances of Graudan’s death?” Faramir asked.

“It is all you will find from official sources,” Aragorn said. “But I wonder if word of mouth and the chatter of those who are often ignored might serve us better on this occasion. Let us summon our favorite gossip, the good Ioreth.” He nodded to one of the guards, who departed to seek the woman.

 

Ioreth was terribly excited to be called before the King. She made a courtesy to him, and a second and a third to the counselors also present, and was finally prevailed upon to stand before the desk of the King, where they had moved the chairs aside to give her room.

“2977!” she exclaimed. “Nay, my lord, I did not work in the Houses of Healing at that time, for I still dwelt in Lossarnach. I was scarce more than a lass then. I did not come to Minas Tirith until I was married in 2979. Although I met my late husband in 2978. It was springtime, and all the roses were in bloom. Brúnor used to pick them and trim off all the thorns before he braided them into crowns for my hair. You might not believe it now, but I was considered quite beautiful in those days. My hair was black as night, and almost to my knees. Brúnor thought it looked best with red roses, and so although I favored pink, I came to quite love the red, for they remained his favorites throughout all his life.”

“So you came to Minas Tirith two years after the events in question,” Aragorn said. “Are there any still alive who worked there prior to you?”

“Nay, my lord. Forneth was the last I know of, and she died the month after your lordship was crowned. Very glad she was, too, that death did not take her sooner, and that she had the chance to see new hope in Gondor and the city so beautiful again.”

“It is indeed a beautiful city,” Aragorn said. “Do you know aught of the events that happened before you came to the Houses of Healing? The death I refer to would have been much spoken of, for it was the only time that a man has been killed by violence within those walls.”

“Ah yes, Grauadan of the Guard!” Ioreth said. “Gaearel told me that he was terribly handsome—though not as handsome as my Brúnor, she would say, and I am sure she was right—and so many women were terribly in love with him, even high ladies who really shouldn’t have had anything to do with him. I heard some of the women he romanced were even married, though I know it’s a dreadful thing to say. Gaearel told me that her sister told her that when Grauadan died, there was a lady who was so distraught at the news that she threw herself from the city wall!”

“Have you heard aught of such a story?” Aragorn inquired in the direction of Faramir and Imrahil.

“There was no mention of any such thing in the records of the Houses of Healing,” Faramir said.

“Neither does the record of the investigation include it,” Golundil added. He paged through the book that he still held. “I see nothing mentioned here of anyone falling from the city wall around that time.”

“Ah, well, perhaps Gaearel’s sister didn’t know what she was talking about,” Ioreth said. “But Gaearel also told me that the Warden of the Houses of Healing never thought that Graudan actually killed himself, and that she didn’t think so either. But the Warden had never cared for Grauadan, and so he did not bother himself overmuch when he was told to write down that it was suicide. I am sorry to say it of him, but that is what I was told. And then there was the great captain, Thorongil. He was actually there, in Grauadan’s room, the night he died! Of course no one suspected him, because he was much beloved in the city, but the fact that he disappeared a few years later was very suspicious, don’t you think? And they say there was hardly anybody in the building, so there were few other people with the opportunity to kill Grauadan. Perhaps Thorongil was only pretending to be a good man so that he could insinuate himself into the city to kill Grauadan. Though I cannot see how that would be possible, for there was a goodness to the captain that could not be feigned. I saw him myself, several times, that first year I lived in Minas Tirith before he went to battle in the south and never came back, and a finer man you never did see. The first time I saw him was at the first birthday party for Lord Boromir—may his memory rest in peace. He was such a dear lad then. But Lord Thorongil! He stood tall and stern there, and I thought he looked terribly wise, like one of the ancients. He looked much like your lordship, actually, begging your pardon.”

“I have no doubt,” Aragorn said with a smile. “You said there were few in the building; do you know who was there besides Thorongil?”

“I have heard that there was another captain, a very aged one who died the year after, before I ever came to the city. And a younger soldier who also died shortly after. The porter dwelt in the hall, but none suspected him, for he had served there for long years and many trusted him. He worked there more than a decade after I came, and he always seemed to wish that all our patients be healed, and would speak polite words to me when I passed. I do not think that he could be a murderer. And then there were two people who visited in the night. A highborn lady named Ivriniel, and Lord Felarúth, who was there to investigate the murder.”

“You must be mistaken,” Aragorn said. “Felarúth did not come to the Houses of Healing to investigate until the next day. The murder was not discovered until the morning.”

“Would Ivriniel be my aunt, or are there others by that name?” Faramir asked, worried.

“She is the only lady by that name that I know of in Gondor,” Imrahil said. “But she was at home in Dol Amroth. She had not set foot in Minas Tirith since Finduilas’s wedding, and I do not think that she ever returned to the city after that.” He hesitated for several moments, then continued. “There was a time, once, when Finduilas and I were still children, and only Ivriniel was considered old enough to be invited to parties. There was a party that Finduilas wished to go to, to which she was not invited. But Ivriniel was, and she had no interest in going. So my second sister dressed herself up in one of Ivriniel’s dresses, and did her hair up as adult as she could manage, and convinced me to attire myself as her page. The guards at the gate had never seen my sisters close enough to distinguish them, and once admitted to the party, she simply avoided her hosts, and all others assumed she must have been invited. Our parents found out afterward, of course, when someone mentioned seeing her at the party, but Finduilas thought it was all quite worth it.”

“You think, then, that the Ivriniel that Ioreth tells her was there that night could actually have been your other sister Finduilas?” Aragorn asked.

“It is possible, though I hate to think that she was at all involved in this matter,” Imrahil said. He turned to Ioreth. “How do you know who was there? This so-called Ivriniel, how do you know that was her name?”

“Well,” Ioreth said, “the porter kept a secret book of unofficial visits, when important people came to the Houses of Healing but didn’t want anybody to know about it so they told everybody not to record their visit. The porter kept a record anyway, but he didn’t show it to anyone. After he left the Houses and a new porter took his place, his old book ended up in the records-room of the Houses. Of course, I never looked in it, because that just wouldn’t be proper, because all those highborn people deserved their privacy. But my friend Gonedis peeked in it once. She was terribly curious about the death of Grauadan, as of course we all were. And it was she that told me about the two people who were there that night, Lady Ivriniel and Lord Felarúth. I am quite sure that they were there that night, and not before or after, for Gonedis was very good with words and numbers and dates. She kept the records of comings and goings of the Houses for many years, so she would not be likely to misread such a thing.”

“Where is this book now?” Aragorn asked.

“Oh, probably in the records-room still,” Ioreth said.

“Fetch it,” Aragorn said. He beckoned to the guard that had fetched Ioreth hither. “Escort the good Ioreth to the records-room of the Houses of Healing, and if any object to her removing the book, tell them she does so under my authority.”

 

The book was soon brought. Aragorn had also sent for the current porter of the wing in question, and he arrived at the same time that Ioreth returned.

“Here is the book, your lordship,” she said. “It was tucked away on a low shelf of a bookcase near the back of the room, and I daresay that it has not even been touched since Gonedis and I looked at it all those years ago.”

Aragorn took the book. “Tell me,” he said to the porter. “Do people ever come to your door during the hours it is kept shut, and request admittance?”

“At times, my lord,” he said. “Usually they’re wanting something from the herb stores, you see. The herbs are kept at the end of the wing, where it runs into the city wall. Being all surrounded by stone like that, it stays cooler than most other places in the city, so it’s the best place for them. Often I have to turn them away, but sometimes somebody comes who’s high-ranking enough that I have to do whatever they say, even if it’s against the rules. It doesn’t happen very often, though.”

“Have you ever admitted two people in the same night?” Faramir asked.

“No, my lord, never.”

“Do you keep a record of those you admit?” Aragorn asked.

“No, my lord. I know my letters, but I’m not very good at such things, and I thought if all those fancy people don’t want anybody knowing about their business, then there’s no reason to spread it any farther.”

“This book was kept by one of your predecessors,” Aragorn said, handing it to him. “Can you read well enough to evaluate it, or shall I read it to you?”

“I should be able to read it, my lord.”

“Look at that book, and tell me whether it seems to you to be a record of the same thing you described to me just now, of individuals of high rank being granted secret entrance to the wing during the night hours?”

He peered over the book for some minutes, turning the pages infrequently. “It does, my lord,” he said finally.

Aragorn took the book back and dismissed him. “I should have inquired more with the porter at the time,” he said when he had gone. “I believed the Warden when he said that the porter had admitted no one, but he may have misunderstood. The porter need not have lied; I can think of several ways he could have explained the situation that the Warden would have misunderstood if he did not know that some were being admitted secretly.” He opened the book to the week in question, and handed it to Faramir. “Would you read the entries for that week?”

Faramir peered at the book. The ink was faded, and the handwriting was cramped in places, but it was mostly legible. “For the first three days of the week, no one was admitted. Then on Orgaladh, Osttil—no, Ospel, I think—was admitted to fetch herbs to relieve her husband’s pain.”

“The Captain of the Gate had a wife named Ospel, I believe,” Golundil said.

“His name was Harndir, was it not?” Faramir asked. “I saw his name in the book; he was treated in the Houses of Healing two months prior. I cannot recall what his ailment was, but that is likely why he needed the herbs.” He turned back to the book. “The next day was Ormenel, and again no one was admitted. But then the night of Oraearon, two people were admitted. Indeed, the first is called Ivriniel. There is a note by the side, but I can make no sense of it.” He stared at the scrawled characters for a few moments. “It appears to say ‘laeic ucamneln’, but that makes no sense. After that, later the same night, Felarúth. He was there that night after all. The notation is clear; it could not have been the next morning.”

“He must have been there to investigate,” Ioreth said. “Getting started right away.”

“The death was not discovered until the next morning,” Aragorn said, “and Ecthelion did not assign Felarúth to investigate until some hours after that.”

“The only explanation of his visit is the one word ‘knee’,” Faramir said further.

“Felarúth did indeed have a knee injury, from fighting in Ithilien,” Aragorn said contemplatively. “Yet he never mentioned that he had been there that night. Strange that he should not.”

“This Felarúth, did he know Grauadan?” Faramir asked.

“They may have been acquainted, but I know not if they ever met,” Aragorn said. “I did not know either of them well. Imrahil, do you know?”

“I do not know the answer to that question, for I knew the two men even less well than you,” Imrahil said. “I do not think that I ever met Grauadan of the Guard. Yet I have recollected something. Felarúth had a wife named Morwen, did he not?”

“I believe that is correct,” Aragorn said.

“After the death of Grauadan, I wished to know all I could about the matter so that I might speak rightly if someone asked me about it. In the course of my reading, I read all of the recent records of the Houses of Healing. I believe these are the same that Faramir has just read, and he may correct me if my recollection from so long ago is incorrect. But I think that there were several entries for a Morwen in the weeks leading up to Grauadan’s death. I noticed because there were few who visited the Houses so many times without being admitted.”

Faramir reached quickly for the book and paged through it. “I seem to recall that name myself,” he said. “Yes, here. On the day before the death, she sought treatment for a cough, and she had also claimed the same symptoms two days prior. Three days before that, she presented herself with an aching wrist, which the healers confirmed was neither sprained nor broken. The day before that, Grauadan was admitted after a bad fall at a party hosted by the Lady Celebeth, cousin of my grandfather. And before that…” He paged through three months of the book, just to be certain. “Before that, Morwen does not appear to have any visits recorded to the Houses of Healing.” He looked up at the King. “Perhaps she is the key, then. Do you know anything about the woman? I cannot recall ever meeting her.”

“I never met her that I can recall,” Aragorn said. “I was never in the city long enough to attend very many social occasions. I heard gossip about her, though, as one does. Much of what people said about her was disfavorable and unkind, but I discounted it as simple dislike and jealousy, as so much other gossip.”

“But perhaps, in this case, some of what they said was true?” Faramir asked.

“I fear so. And if that is true, I fear for what happened to her. If, as it seems, she was having an affair that her husband discovered, his anger might not have been directed solely upon Grauadan. Do any of the rest of you recall anything about her, and what happened after?”

“I do, lord,” Imrahil said. “I was not well-acquainted with Morwen, but we met at parties and other gatherings now and again. She continued to live in Minas Tirith for a few years after that. There was always gossip about her, but I do not remember any time that it was particularly bad in that way that sometimes betokens a sliver of truth. When her husband died, she moved back to Lebennin or wherever it was that she came from, and I know no more of her fate.”

“Felarúth is dead, then?” Faramir asked. “A sorry end to our investigation this is, then, and yet better than many ends it could have reached.” Try as he might to feel pity for all those involved, he was aware of only a great feeling of relief, that his mother’s memory had not been tarnished by his choices.

“He is indeed,” Imrahil said, “though I do not recall any of the particulars.”

“This question I can answer,” Mablung said. “I did not serve in Ithilien until after the death of Felarúth, but many of the Rangers there when I first entered the service had served under him and were there when he died. It would have been nigh on a decade after the events you have just discussed. As many times before, the Rangers were harrying such servants of Sauron as dared to travel along the road. Two companies of Orcs there were that day, traveling together, and the Rangers did not realize how many there were until it was too late to abandon the assault. Felarúth and a half-dozen of hand-picked men made a sacrificial feint to give the rest of the men time to draw off. All but one of them were killed, but they slew many Orcs before they fell, and saved many lives of their brethren.”

“At least in that instance, he served Gondor with the honor that he did not show in his other dealings,” Aragorn said.

The others nodded agreement. “It is better this way,” Faramir said, “than that he should have lived his days out in full. We will never know, but perhaps guilt over his actions led him to make his final choice of honor.”

“Let the records be amended,” Aragorn said, “to show that it is suspected that Grauadan was murdered by Felarúth of the Rangers, who then accepted the honorable role of investigator for the Steward, not out of a desire to see justice done, but in an attempt to cover up his misdeeds.”

“It shall be done,” Golundil said. And thus was justice done, though none of those involved would ever know.

 

It was later, when the other counselors had departed and Faramir was alone once again with the King, that he thought once again of Finduilas. “Do you still think that my mother was present at the Houses of Healing that night?” he asked suddenly. “It would seem the most likely explanation for the mysterious woman calling herself Ivriniel, but why should she wish for such secrecy? She was a high-born lady married to the son of the Steward; surely, she could go where she pleased?” Unless her intended actions were unseemly, he thought but did not say.

“The truth of that, I think, lies in the notation you read,” Aragorn said. “Read it again, but as if the words are written in the mode traditionally used for Quenya, not for Sindarin.”

Of course; the location of the tehtar was far more suited to the mode of Quenya, now that he mentioned it. Faramir reached quickly for the porter’s record-book. “Laiqui cumanlen,” he read.

“Herbs for barrenness,” Aragorn translated. “You said it yourself, she was the wife of the son of the Steward. In the eyes of the city, producing an heir would have been her greatest task. If she feared she was failing at that task, she would not have wished to have it widely known. She felt little enough at home in the city as it was, without further exposing herself to gossip.”

Faramir ran his fingers gently over the words. “The herbs must have helped,” he said. “Boromir was born the next year, nearly…yes, I think it was around nine months after that day.”

“He was a pleasant child, greatly beloved of both his parents and his grandparents,” Aragorn said. “I am only sorry that I did not remain in Gondor long enough to meet you as well, but other tasks called me.”

So many lost ones that they had both known, yet in such different ways. Mother and Father, Boromir…even Grandmother, whom he had fewer memories of than Mother, and Grandfather, whom he had never met at all. Faramir opened his mouth to ask Aragorn further what he remembered of Boromir’s childhood, then closed it again. There would be time for that in the future. And there was too much still to do in the present for him to dwell overmuch in the past. He closed the book and set it aside. “As for the ambassador to Harad,” he said, “do you think it would be better if I treated with him to begin with, or do you wish to speak to him directly?”

Aragorn seized some parchments from the side of the desk and set them before him. The record-book disappeared beneath the pile, no more to be heeded until the Loremaster should once again come and retrieve the writings that he had given to the King. “I have not yet decided, for there are reasons in favor of either choice,” he said. “In the first case…” They bowed their heads over the parchments, and set to work.


End file.
